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Oo CO NI S OR NO es 


26 
27 
28 


The Works of 
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
South Seas Edition 


An Inland Voyage. Travels with a Donkey. 


Virginibus Puerisque. Ethical Papers. Edinburgh: Pictur- 
esque Notes. 


New Arabian Nights. 

The Amateur Emigrant. The Silverado Squatters. 
Familiar Studies of Men and Books. Criticisms. 
Treasure Island. 

Prince Otto. 

The Dynamiter. 

Plays. 

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Other Stories. Fables. 
Kidnapped. 

The Merry Men and Other Tales. 

Meraories and Portraits. Random Memories. 


Poems (Volume J—A Child’s Garden of Verses, Under- 
woods, Songs of Travel, Moral Emblems). 


Poems (Volume JI—Ballads, New Poems). 


Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin. Records of a Family of 
Engineers. 


The Black Arrow. 

The Master of Ballantrae. 

The Wrong Box. The Body-Snatcher. 
In the South Seas. 

The Wrecker. 

David Balfour. 


Island Nights’ Entertainments. The Misadventures of John 
Nicholson. 


The Ebb-Tide. Some Unfinished Stories. 

St. Ives. 

Vailima Papers. A Footnote to History. 
Essays on Literature, on Nature. Juvenilia. 
Weir of Hermiston. Some Unfinished Stories. 


29-32 Letters. Index to Volumes, 


THE WORKS OF 
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 


SOUTH SEAS EDITION 


VOLUME XXII 


‘ 


a So tae” 


Si 


i a 


ee Ee OO 





DAVID BALFOUR 


A SEQUEL TO “KIDNAPPED” 


BY 


ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 





NEW YORK 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
‘ 1925 


Copyright, 1893, 1905, 1922, 1925, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
Copyright, 1921, by Lleyd Osbourne 


Printed in the United States of America 


DAVID BALFOUR 


A SEQUEL TO “KIDNAPPED” 


BEING MEMOIRS OF THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF 
DAVID BALFOUR AT HOME AND ABROAD 


IN WHICH ARE SET FORTH HIS MISFORTUNES ANENT THE 
APPIN MURDER; HIS TROUBLES WITH LORD ADVOCATE 
GRANT; CAPTIVITY ON THE. BASS ROCK; JOURNEY INTO 
HOLLAND AND FRANCE; AND SINGULAR RELATIONS WITH 
JAMES MORE DRUMMOND OR MACGREGOR, A SON OF THE 
NOTORIOUS ROB ROY, AND HIS DAUGHTER CATRIONA. 
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF, AND NOW SET FORTH BY 


ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 


628873 


it 
yyy eal Aa 
Cheah 


1A 





PREFACE 
By Mrs. R. L. StevENsOoN 


URING the year 1892 my husband accomplished 
an immense amount of work, partly because his 
health had greatly improved, but more on account of 
his increased facility “in,’ as he said, “the use of 
his tools.” Writing to Mr. Henry James on December 
5th of that year, he says, “ In twelve calendar months 
I finished The Wreckers, wrote all of Falesa but the first 
chapter (well, much of), the History of Samoa, did 
something here and there to my Life of my Grandfather, 
and began and finished David Balfour.” After the 
publication of David Balfour, it was found that many 
English people were confused by the two names, think- 
ing that, as Kidnapped was the story of David Balfour, 
there must be only one book with a double title. For 
that reason in England the name of the sequel was 
changed to Catriona, causing some of my husband’s 
American readers to imagine that one more book had 
been published there than in America. 

Never was a novel written in more distracting cir- 
cumstances. With the natives on the verge of war, 
and amid the most kaleidoscopic political changes, un- 
certain as to what moment his personal liberty might 
be restrained, his every action misconstrued and re- 
sented by the white inhabitants of the island, the 
excitement and fatigue of my husband’s daily life 
might have seemed enough for any one man to endure, 
without the additional strain of literary work; but 
he found time, besides, for the study of harmony 
and counterpoint, and accepted every invitation he 


x1 


PREFACE 


received to attend public functions or private entertain- 
ments, in accordance with his theory that social inter- 
course was necessary in so small a community, and 
that no one should hold himself aloof for any consid- 
eration other than absolute physical disability. 

Meanwhile, David Balfour slipped through this tur- 
bulent year so quietly that we were hardly aware of 
his passage, though the family caught occasional 
glimpses of Catriona and Miss Grant. From Catriona, 
who was meant to be the conventional heroine of the 
book, my husband gradually transferred his affection 
to Miss Grant, and it was with the greatest difficulty 
that he was able to keep her in her secondary position 
in the story. She was drawn from his remembrance 
of the beautiful and witty Mrs. Ferrier who came 
honestly by both her beauty and her caustic tongue, 
being the daughter of Christopher North (Professor 
Wilson) who was as famous in Scotland for his physical 
perfection as for his literary achievements. 

It might seem a far cry from Samoa to Scotland, 
and yet in many ways one recalled the other. There 
were days when the clouds driving about the summit 
of Mount Vaea dropped in soft grey mist that almost 
obliterated the intervening trees; the tinkling of a 
little rushing stream, and its accompanying waterfall 
a few yards from our door, made the illusion so nearly 
complete that for a moment my husband would feel 
himself transported to his own beloved Scotland. Nor 
was it the scenery alone that reminded the exile of 
his home. The fatherly rule of the Samoan chief, and 
the loyalty of the clan to a name more than to an 
individual, were extraordinarily in the Scottish spirit, 
and the simple dignity of the high chief was the 
same in both countries. The ramifications of a Scotch 
family are bewildering to a stranger, who would hardly 
go beyond a second cousin twice removed in his search 
for kindred; in Samoa even the most distant relations 
of an adopted child must not marry within the family of 
its adoption. 

xil 


BY MRS. R. L. STEVENSON 


When the war drum sounds and the native warriors 
of the different factions “go to the bush” (which is 
preliminary to fighting in the islands) the easy dis- 
cipline of peace is at once discarded; the chief now be- 
comes a real leader of men, his “ sons” rendering him 
an absolute obedience in all things. In times not so 
remote affairs were so ordered in the Highlands of 
Scotland. 7 

I remember the astonished pride of the native men 
of our household when they discovered that the crest 
on our silver was not a meaningless adornment, but 
a symbol of the family. The large dish covers were 
thereafter always produced when we had Samoan 
visitors, and the crest pointed out and explained. Even 
the fact that my husband’s ancestors built lighthouses 
redounded to the glory of our family; for house-building 
of any description is one of the fine arts in Samoa, 
and a most suitable occupation for a chief. 


Xili 


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Ley rr p 
gos dae 

oe Fe ae 

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Orla! G 


ne ies nae 


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cath ay 
mre 


“ 


say 
Sy NR gray ati ti 





- >a ae 


CONTENTS 


Part I—THE LORD ADVOCATE 


CHAPTER 


A Beggar on Horseback 

The Highland Writer 

I Go to Pilrig 

Lord Advocate Prestongrange 

In the Advocate’s House 

Umquhile the Master of Lovat 

I Make a Fault in Honour 

The Bravo 

The Heather on Fire 

The Red-Headed Man 

The Wood by Silvermills 

On the March Again with Alan 
Gillane Sands 

The Bass 

Black Andie’s Tale of Tod Lapraik 
The Missing Witness 

The Memorial 

The Tee’d Ball 

I Am Much in the Hands of the Ladies 
I Continue to Move in Good Society 


Part II—FATHER AND DAUGHTER 


The Voyage into Holland 
Helvoetsluys 
XV 


113 
123 
132 
144 
154 
167 
177 
188 


201 
213 


CHAPTER 


AXII. 
XXIV. 
XXYV. 
XXVI. 
XXVILI. 
XXVIII. 
XXIX. 
XXX, 


CONTENTS 


Travels in Holland 

Full Story of a Copy of Heineccius 
The Return of James More 

The Threesome 

A Twosome 

In Which I Am Left Alone 

We Meet in Dunkirk 

The Letter from the Ship 
Conclusion 





DEDICATION 


ox 
} 
es fie 
a i O 


% CHARLES BAXTER, 
- Writer to the Signet 


‘M y Dear Charles, 


It ts the fate of sequels to disappoint those who 
have watted for them; and my David, having been 


‘- left to kick his heels for more than a lustre in the 


British Linen Company’s office, must expect his late 


re-appearance to be greeted with hoots, if not with 
missiles. Yet, when I remember the days of our ex- 


- plorations, I am not without hope. There should be 


left in our native city some seed of the elect; some 
long-legged, hot-headed youth must repeat to-day our 
dreams and wanderings of so many years ago; he will 
relish the pleasure, which should have been ours, to 


| follow among named streets and numbered houses the 








country walks of David Balfour, to identify Dean, 
and Silvermills, and Broughton, and Hope Park, and 
 Pilrig, and poor old Lochend—if it still be standing, 
and the Figgate Whins—if there be any of them left; 


or to push (on a long holiday) so far afield as Gillane 
or the Bass. So, perhaps, his eye shall be opened to 
behold the series of the generations, and he shall weigh 
with surprise his momentous and nugatory gift of life. 

You are still—as’when first I saw, as when I last 
addressed you—in the venerable city which I must 
always think of as my home. And I have come so far; 
and the sights and thoughts of my youth pursue me; 
and I see like a vision the youth of my father, and 
of his father, and the whole stream of lives flowwng 
down there far in the north, with the sound of laughter 
and tears, to cast me out in the end, as by a sudden 
freshet, on these ultimate islands. And I admire and 
bow my head before the romance of destiny. 


RES. 


Vailima, Upolu, Samoa, 
1892. 


pve LEN 


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“4 oGhe PTE ar ; aT ee eel Tees aia 
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: “es aso Yo ayob sit vadimiinet & nodar Jot ~ saben 
oh bhtods sadT sqed todtior tom avo 1 soso 
‘gatos visio adt Yo tno servos Wate. swihodt ued GH TS: 
nga goh-ol iosqat Sane Atmoy Bobood-tod Doggsieguet: 
“Mar 8A conn eroay tant oa 1 eqrtebanne bap eam 

af ao aood gand bhrode Moider ocuensly gdb Ager 

“7 < gd voarad boredande bap vote. bose qaonto Gnsilgy 
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THE LORD ADVOCATE, 


REST RIA "4 





This story was first issued under the 
title, David Balfour, Memoirs of his 
Adventures at Home and Abroad, in 
Atalanta, December, 1892, to Septem- 
ber, 1898. 

After publication it was found that 
many persons were confused by the 
two titles, as both books told of the 
adventures of the same hero. For that 
reason in England the name of the 
sequel was changed to Catriona. 


DAVID BALFOUR 


CHAPTER I 


A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK 


HE 25th day of August, 1751, about two in the 

afternoon, I, David Balfour, came forth of the 
British Linen Company, a porter attending me with a 
bag of money, and some of the chief of these merchants 
bowing me from their doors. Two days before, and 
even so late as yestermorning, I was like a beggar- 
man by the wayside, clad in rags, brought down to 
my last shillings, my companion a condemned traitor, 
a price set on my own head for a crime with the 
news of which the country rang. To-day I was served 
heir to my position in life, a landed laird, a bank-porter 
by me carrying my gold, recommendations in my 
pocket, and (in the words of the saying) the ball 
directly at my foot. 

There were two circumstances that served me as 
ballast to so much sail. The first was the very difficult 
and deadly business I had still to handle; the second 
the place that I was in. The tall, black city, and the 
numbers and movement and noise of so many folk, 
made a new world for me, after the moorland braes, 
the sea-sands, and the still country-sides that I had 
frequented up to then. The throng of citizens in par- 
ticular abashed me. Rankeillor’s son was short and 
small of girth; his clothes scarce held on me; and it 

3 


6 DAVID BALFOUR 


At the top only a ribbon of sky showed in. By what 
I could spy in the windows, and by the respectable 
persons that passed out and in, I saw the houses to 
be very well occupied; and the whole appearance of the 
place interested me like a tale. 

I was still gazing, when there came a sudden brisk 
tramp of feet in time and clash of steel behind me. 
Turning quickly, I was aware of a party of armed 
soldiers, and, in their midst, a tall man in a great-coat. 
He walked with a stoop that was like a piece of 
courtesy, genteel and insinuating: he waved his hands 
plausibly as he went, and his face was sly and hand- 
some. I thought his eye took me in, but could not 
meet it. This procession went by to a door in the 
close, which a serving-man in a fine livery set open; 
and two of the soldier-lads carried the prisoner within, 
the rest lingering with their firelocks by the door. 

There can nothing pass in the streets of a city with- 
out some following of idle folk and children. It was 
so now; but the more part melted away incontinent” 
until but three were left. One was a girl; she was 
dressed like a lady, and had a screen of the Drummond 
colours on her head; but her comrades or (I should 
say) followers were ragged gillies, such as I had seen 
the matches of by the dozen in my Highland journey. 
They all spoke earnestly in Gaelic, the sound of which 
was pleasant in my ears for the sake af Alan; and 
though the rain was by again, and my porter plucked 
at me to be going, I even drew nearer where they were, 
to listen. The lady scolded sharply, the others making 
apologies and cringing before her, so that I made sure 
she was come of a chief’s house. All the while the 
three of them sought in their pockets, and by what I 
could make out, they had the matter of half a farthing 
among the party; which made me smile a little to see 
all Highland folk alike for fine obeisances and empty 
sporrans. 

It chanced the girl turned suddenly about, so that I 
saw her face for the first time. There is no greater 


A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK 7 


wonder than the way the face of a young woman fits 
in a man’s mind, and stays there, and he could never 
tell you why; it just seems it was the thing he wanted. 
She had wonderful bright eyes like stars, and I daresay 
the eyes had a part in it; but what I remembered the 
most clearly was the way her lips were a trifle open as 
she turned. And whatever was the cause, I stood there 
staring like a fool. On her side, as she had not known 
there was anyone so near, she looked at me a little 
longer, and perhaps with more surprise, than was en- 
tirely civil. 

It went through my country head she might be 
wondering at my new clothes; with that, I blushed to 
my hair, and at the sight of my colouring it is to be 
supposed she drew her own conclusions, for she moved 
her gillies farther down the close, and they fell again 
to this dispute where I could hear no more of it. 

I had often admired a lassie before then, if scarce so 
sudden and strong; and it was rather my disposition to 
withdraw than to come forward, for I was much in fear 
of mockery from the womenkind. You would have 
thought I had now all the more reason to pursue my 
common practice, since I had met this young lady in 
the city street, seemingly following a prisoner, and 
accompanied with two very ragged indecent-like High- 
landmen. But there was here a different ingredient; 
it was plain the girl thought I had been prying in her 
secrets; and with my new clothes and sword, and at the 
top of my new fortunes, this was more than I could 
swallow. The beggar on horseback could not bear 
to be thrust down so low, or at the least of it, not by 
this young lady. 

I followed, accordingly, and took off my new hat 
to her, the best that I was able. 

“Madam,” said I, “I think it only fair to myself 
to let you understand I have no Gaelic. It is true I 
was listening, for I have friends of my own across the 
Highland line, and the sound of that tongue comes 
friendly; but for your private affairs, if you had spoken 


8 DAVID BALFOUR 


Greek, I might have had more guess at them.” 

She made me a little, distant curtsey. “There is no 
harm done,” said she, with a pretty accent, most like 
the English (but more agreeable). ‘A cat may look at 
a king.” 

“T do not mean to offend,” said I. “I have no skill 
of city manners; I never before this day set foot inside 
the doors of Edinburgh. Take me for a country lad— 
it’s what I am; and I would rather I told you than you 
found it out.” 

“Indeed, it will be a very unusual thing for strangers 
to be speaking to each other on the causeway,” she 
replied. “But if you are landward* bred it will be 
different. J am as landward as yourself; I am High- 
land as you see, and think myself the farther from my 
home.” 

“Tt is not yet a week since I passed the line,” said I. 
“Less than a week ago I was on the braes of Bal- 
whidder.” 

“Balwhither?” she cries. ‘Come ye from Bal- 
whither? The name of it makes all there is of me 
rejoice. You will not have been long there, and not 
known some of our friends or family?” 

“T lived with a very honest, kind man called Duncan 
Dhu Maclaren,” I replied. 

“Well I know Duncan, and you give him the true 
name!” she said; “‘and if he is an honest man, his 
wife is honest indeed.” 

“Ay,” said I, ‘they. are fine people, and the place 
1s a bonny place.” 

“Where in the great world is such another?” she 
cries; “I am loving the smell of that place and the 
roots that TOW there.” 

I was infinitely taken with the spirit of the maid. “T 
could be wishing I had brought you a spray of that 
heather,” says I. ‘And though I did ill to speak with 
you at the first, now it seems we have common ac- 
quaintance. I make it my petition you will not forget 

* Country. 


A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK 9 


me. David Balfour is the name I am known by. This 
is my lucky day, when I have just come into a landed 
estate, and am not very long out of a deadly peril. 
I wish you would keep my name in mind for the sake 
of Balwhidder,’” said I, ‘‘and I will yours for the sake 
of my lucky day.” 

“My name is not spoken,” she replied, with a great 
deal of haughtiness. “More than a hundred years it 
has not gone upon men’s tongues, save for a blink. I 
am nameless like the Folk of Peace.* Catriona Drum- 
mond is the one I use.” 

Now indeed I knew where I was standing. In all 
broad Scotland there was but the one name proscribed, 
and that was the name of the Macgregors. Yet so far 
from fleeing this undesirable acquaintancy, I plunged 
the deeper in. 

“T have been sitting with one who was in the same 
case with yourself,” said I, “and I think he will be 
one of your friends. They call him Robin Oig.” 

“Did ye so?” eries she. “Ye met Rob?” 

“T passed the night with him,” said I. 

“He is a fowl of the night,” said she. 

“There was a set of pipes there,” I went on, “so you 
may judge if the time passed.” 

“You should be no enemy, at all events,” said she. 
“That was his brother there a moment since, with the 
red soldiers round him, It is him that I call father.” 

“Ts it so?” eried I. “Are you a daughter of James 
More’s?” 

“All the daughter that he has,” says she: “the 
daughter of a prisoner; that I should forget it so, even 
for one hour, to talk with strangers!”’ 

Here one of the gillies addressed her in what he had 
of English, to know what “she” (meaning by that him- 
self) was to do about “ta sneeshin.” I took some note 
of him for a short, bandy-legged,: red-haired, big- 
headed man, that I was to know 3 more of .to my cost. 

“There can be none the day, Neil,” she replied. 

*'The Fairies. 


10 DAVID BALFOUR 


“How will you get ‘sneeshin’, wanting siller? It will 
teach you another time to be more careful; and I think 
James More will not be very well pleased with Neil 
of the Tom.” 

“Miss Drummond,” I said, “I told you I was in my 
lucky day. Here I am, and a bank-porter at my tail. 
And remember I have had the hospitality of your own 
country of Balwhidder.”’ 

“It was not one of my people gave it,” said she. 

“Ah, well,” said I, “but I am owing your uncle at 
least for some springs upon the pipes. Besides which, 
I have offered myself to be your friend and you have 
been so forgetful that you did not refuse me in the 
proper time.”’ 

“Tf it had been a great sum it might have done you 
honour,” said she; “but I will tell you what this is. 
James More lies shackled in prison; but this time past, 
they will be bringing him down here daily to the 
Advocate’s... . .” 

“The Advocate’s?” I cried. “Is that . . .?” 

“It is the house of the Lord Advocate Grant of 
Prestongrange,” said she. ‘There they bring my father 
one time, and another, for what purpose I have no 
thought in my mind; but it seems there is some hope 
dawned for him. All this same time they will not let 
me be seeing him, nor yet him write; and we wait upon 
the King’s street to catch him; and now we give him his 
snuff as he goes by, and now something else. And here 
is this son of trouble, Neil, son of Duncan, has lost 
my fourpenny-piece that was to buy that snuff, and 
James More must go wanting, and will think his 
daughter has forgotten him.” 

I took sixpence from my pocket, gave it to Neil, and 
bade him go about his errand. Then to her, ‘That 
sixpence came with me by Balwhidder,” said I. 

“Ah!” she said, “you are a friend to the Gregara!” 

“T would not like to deceive you either,” said I. “I 
know very little of the Gregara and less of James More 
and his doings, but since the while I have been standing 


A BEGGAR ON HORSEBACK 11 


in this close, I seem to know something of yourself; and 
if you will just say ‘a friend to Miss Catriona’ I will 
see you are the less cheated.” 

“The one cannot be without the other,” said she. 

“T will even try,” said I. 

“And what will you be thinking of myself?” she 
cried, “to be holding my hand to the first stranger?” 

“T am thinking nothing but that you are a good 
daughter,” said I. 

“T must not be without repaying it,” she said; “where 
is it you stop?” | 

“To tell the truth, I am stopping nowhere yet,” said 
I, “being not full three hours in the city; but if you 
will give me your direction, I will be so bold as come 
seeking my sixpence for myself.” 

“Will I can trust you for that?” she asked. 

“You need have little fear,” said I. 

“James More could not bear it else,” said she. “I 
stop beyond the village of Dean, on the north side of 
the water, with Mrs. Drummond-Ogilvy of Allardyce, 
who is my near friend and will be glad to thank you.” 

“You are to see me then, so soon as what I have to 
do permits,” said I; and the remembrance of Alan 
rolling in again upon my mind, I made haste to say 
farewell. 

TI could not but think, even as I did so, that we had 
made extraordinary free upon short acquaintance, and 
that a really wise young lady would have shown her- 
self more backward. I think it was the bank-porter 
that put me from this ungallant train of thought. 

“T thoucht ye had been a lad of some kind o’ sense,” 
he began, shooting out his lips. ‘Ye’re no likely to 
gang far this gate. A fule and his sillar’s shune parted. 
Eh, but ye’re a green callant!” he cried, “an’ a veccious, 
tae! Cleikin’ up wi’ baubee-joes!” 

“Tf you dare to speak of the young lady . . .” I 
began. 

“Leddy!” he cried. “Haud us and safe us, whatten 
leddy? Ca’ thon a leddy? The toun’s fu’ o’ them. 


12 DAVID BALFOUR 


Leddies! Man, it’s weel seen ye’re ‘no very acquaint in 
Kmbro!?’: 

A clap of anger took me. 

“Here,” said I, “lead me where I told you, and keep 
your foul mouth shut!” 

He did not wholly obey me, for though he no more 
addressed me directly, he sang at me as he went 
in a very impudent manner of innuendo, and with an 
exceedingly ill voice and ear— 

“As Mally Lee cam doun the street, her capuchin did flee, 

She cuist a look ahint her to see her negligee. 


And we're a’ gaun east and wast, we’re a’ gaun ajee, 
Foret ’ Le | ? 
Weve a’ gaun east and wast courtin’ Mally Lee. 


CHAPTER IT 
THE HIGHLAND WRITER 


R. CHARLES STEWART the Writer dwelt at 

the top of the longest stair that ever mason set 
a hand to; fifteen flights of it, no less; and when I 
had come to his door, and a clerk had opened it, and 
told me his master was within, I had scarce breath 
enough to send my porter packing. 

“Awa’ east and wast wi’ ye!” said I, took the money 
bag out of his hands, and followed the clerk in. 

The outer room was an office with the clerk’s chair 
at a table spread with law papers. In the inner 
chamber, which opened from it, a little brisk man sat 
poring on a deed, from which he scarce raised his eyes 
upon my entrance; indeed, he still kept his finger in 
the place, as though prepared to show me out and fall 
again to his studies. This pleased me little enough; 
and what pleased less, I thought the clerk was in a good 
posture to overhear what should pass between us. 

I asked if he was Mr. Charles Stewart the Writer. 

“The same,” says he; “and if the question is equally 
fair, who may you be yourself?” 

“You never heard tell of my name nor of me either,” 
said I, “but I bring you a token from a friend that you 
know well. That you know well,” I repeated, lowering 
my voice, “but maybe are not just. so keen to hear from 
at this present being. And the bits of business that 
I have to propone to you are rather in the nature 
of being confidential. In short, I would like to think 
we were quite private.” 

He rose without more words, casting down his paper 
like a.man ill-pleased, sent forth his clerk on an errand, 
and shut to the house-door behind him. 

) 13 


14 DAVID BALFOUR 


“Now, sir,” said he, returning, “speak out your mind 
and fear nothing; though before you begin,” he cries 
out, “I tell you mine misgives me! I tell you before- 
hand, ye’re either a Stewart or a Stewart sent ye. A 
good name it is, and one it would ill-become my 
father’s son to use lightly. But I begin to grue at the 
sound of it.” 

“My name is called Balfour,” said I, “David Balfour 
of Shaws. As for him that sent me, I will let his token 
speak.” And I showed the silver button. | 

“Put it in your pocket, sir!” cries he. “Ye need 
name no names. The deevil’s buckie, I ken the button 
of him! And de’il hae’t! Where is he now?” 

I told him I knew not where Alan was, but he had 
some sure place (or thought he had) about the north 
side, where he was to lie until a ship was found for 
Lt and how and where he had appointed to be spoken 
with. 

“It’s been always my opinion that I would hang in 
a tow for this family of mine,” he cried, “and, dod! I 
believe the day’s come now! Get a ship for him, 
quot’ he! And who’s to pay for it? The man’s daft!” 

“That is my part of the affair, Mr. Stewart,” said I. 
“Here is a bag of good money, and if more be wanted, 
more is to be had where it came from.” 

“T needn’t ask your politics,” said he. 

“Ye need not,” said I, smiling, “for I’m as big a 
Whig as grows.” 

“Stop a bit, stop a bit,” says Mr. Stewart. “What’s 
all this? A Whig? Then why are you here with Alan’s 
button? and what kind of a black-foot traffic is this 
that I find ye out in, Mr. Whig? Here is a forfeited 
rebel and an accused murderer, with two hundred 
pounds on his life, and ye ask me to meddle in his 
business, and then tell me ye’re a Whig! I have no 
mind of any such Whigs before, though I’ve kent 
plenty of them.” 

“He’s a forfeited rebel, the more’s the pity,” said I, 
“for the man’s my friend. I can only wish he had 


THE HIGHLAND WRITER 15 


been better guided. And an accused murderer, that he 
is too, for his misfortune; but wrongfully accused.” 

“T hear you say so,” said Stewart. 

“More than you are to hear me say so, before long,” 
said I. “Alan Breck is innocent, and so is James.” 

“Oh!” says he, “the two cases hang together. If 
Alan is out, James can never be in.” 

Hereupon I told him briefly of my acquaintance 
with Alan, of the accident that brought me present at 
the Appin murder, and the various passages of our 
escape among the heather, and my recovery of my 
estate. ‘So, sir, you have now the whole train of these 
events,” I went on, “and can see for yourself how I 
come to be so much amingled up with the affairs of 
your family and friends, which (for all of our sakes) 
I wish had been plainer and less bloody. You can 
see for yourself, too, that I have certain pieces of 
business depending, which were scarcely fit to lay be- 
fore a lawyer chosen at random. No more remains, but 
to ask if you will undertake my service?” 

“T have no great mind to it; but coming as you do 
with Alan’s button, the choice is scarcely left me,” said 
he. “What are your instructions?” he added, and took 
up his pen. 

“The first point is to smuggle Alan forth of this 
country,” said I, ‘but I need not be repeating that.” 

“T am little likely to forget it,’’ said Stewart. 

“The next thing is the bit of money I am owing to 
Cluny,” I went on. “It would be ill for me to find a 
conveyance, but that should be no stick to you. It was 
two pounds five shillings and three-halfpence farthing 
sterling.” 

He noted it. 

“Then,” said I, “there’s a Mr. Henderland, a licensed 
preacher, and missionary in Ardgour, that I would like 
well to get some snuff into the hands of; and as I 
daresay you keep touch with your friends in Appin (so 
near by), it’s a job you could doubtless overtake with 
the other.” 


16 | DAVID BALFOUR 


“How much snuff are we to say?” he asked. 

“T was thinking of two pounds,” said I, 

“Two,” said he. 

“Then there’s the lass Alison Hastie, in Limekilns,” 
said I.. “Her that helped Alan and me across the 
Forth. I was thinking if I could get her a good Sunday 
gown, such as she could wear with decency in her 
degree, it would be an ease to my conscience; for the 
mere truth is, we owe her our two lives.” 

‘“T am glad to see you are thrifty, Mr. Balfour,” says 
he, making his notes. 

“T would think shame to be otherwise the first day of 
my fortune,” said I. “And now, if you will compute 
the outlay and your own proper charges, 1 would be 
glad to know if I could get some spending-money back. 
It’s not that I grudge the whole of it to get Alan safe; 
it’s not that I lack more; but having drawn so much 
the one day, I think 1t would have a very ill appearance 
if I was back again seeking, the next. Only be sure 
you have enough,” I added, “for I am very undesirous 
to meet with you again.” 

“Well, and I’m pleased to see you’re cautious too,” 
said the Writer. “But I think ye take a risk to lay 
so considerable a sum at my discretion.” 

He said this with a plain sneer. 

“T’ll have to run the hazard,” I replied. “O, and 
there’s another service I would ask, and that’s to direct 
me to a lodging, for I have no roof to my head. But 
it must be a lodging that I may seem to have hit upon 
by accident, for it would never do if the Lord Advocate 
were to get any jealousy of our acquaintance.” 

“Ye may set your weary spirit at rest,” said he. “I 
will never name your name, sir; and it’s my belief the 
Advocate is still so much to be sympathised with that 
he doesnae ken of your existence.” 

I saw I had got to the wrong side of the man. 

“There’s a braw day coming for him, then,” said I, 
“for he’ll have to learn of it on the deaf side of his 
head no later than to-morrow, when I call on him.” 


THE HIGHLAND WRITER 17 


“When ye call on him!” repeated Mr. Stewart. “Am 
i: ee, or are you? What takes ye near the Advo- 
cate?” 

“O, just to give myself up,” said I. 

“Mr. Balfour,” he cried, “are ye making a bie of 
me?” 

“No, sir,” said I, ‘though I think you have allowed 
yourself some such freedom with myself. But I give 
you to understand once and for all that I am in no 
jesting spirit.” 

“Nor yet me,” says Stewart. “And I give you to 
understand. (if that’s to be the word) that I like the 
looks of your behaviour less and less. You come here 
to me with all sorts of propositions, which will put 
me in a train of very doubtful acts and bring me 
among very undesirable persons this many a day to 
come. And then you tell me you're going straight 
out of my office to make your peace with the Advo- 
cate! Alan’s button here or Alan’s button there, the 
four quarters of Alan wouldnae bribe me further in.” 

“T would take it with a little more temper,” said I, 
“and perhaps we can avoid what you object to; I can 
see no way for it but to give myself up, but perhaps 
you can see another; and if you could, I could never 
deny but what I would be rather relieved. For I think 
my traffic with his lordship is little likely to agree with 
my health. There’s just the one thing clear, that L 
have to give my evidence; for I hope it'll save Alan’s 
character (what’s left of it), and James’s neck, which is 
the more immediate.” 

He was silent for a breathing-space, and then, “My 
man,” said he, “youll never be allowed to give such 
evidence.” 

“We'll have to see about that,” said I; “I’m stiff- 
necked when [I like.” | 

“Ye muckle ass!” cried Stewart, “it’s James they 
want; James has got to Sane UAtaa too, if they could 
catch him—but James. whateyer! | Go near the 


18 DAVID BALFOUR 


Advocate with any such business, and you'll see! he’ll 
find a way to muzzle ye.” 

“T think better of the Advocate than that,” said I. 

“The Advocate be damned!” cries he. “It’s the 
Campbells, man! You'll have the whole clanjamfry 
of them on your back; and so will the Advocate too, 
poor body! It’s extraordinar ye cannot see where ye 
stand! If there’s no fair way to stop your gab, there’s 
a foul one gaping. They can put ye in the dock, do 
ye no see that?” he cried, and stabbed me with one 
finger in the leg. 

“Ay,” said I, “I was told that same no further back 
than this morning by another lawyer.” 

“And who was he?” asked Stewart. “He spoke sense 
at least.” 

I told I must be excused from naming him, for he 
was a decent stout old Whig, and had little mind to be 
mixed up in such affairs. 

“T think all the world seems to be mixed up in it!” 
cries Stewart. “But what said you?” 

I told him what had passed between Rankeillor and 
myself before the house of Shaws. 

“Well, and so ye will hang!” said he. “Ye’ll hang 
beside James Stewart. There’s your fortune told.” 

“T hope better of it yet than that,” said I; “but I 
could never deny there was a risk.” 

“Risk!” says he, and then sat silent again. “I ought 
to thank you for your staunchness to my friends, to 
whom you show a very good spirit,” he says, “if you 
have the strength to stand by it. But I warn you that 
youre wading deep. I wouldn’t put myself in your 
place (me that’s a Stewart born!) for all the Stewarts 
that ever there were since Noah. Risk? ay, I take 
over-many: but to be tried in court before a Campbell 
jury and a Campbell judge, and that in a Campbell 
country and upon a Campbell quarrel—think what you 
like of me, Balfour, it’s beyond me.” _ 

“It’s a different way of thinking, I suppose,” said I; 


THE HIGHLAND WRITER 19 


“T was brought up to this one by my father before 
me.” 

“Glory to his bones! he has left a decent son to his 
name,” says he. “Yet I would not héve you judge me 
over-sorely. My case is dooms hard. See, sir, ye tell 
me ye’re a Whig: I wonder what Iam. No Whig to be 
sure; I couldnae be just that. But—laigh in your ear, 
man—I’m maybe no very keen on the other side.” 

“Ts that a fact?” cried I. “It’s what I would think 
of a man of your intelligence.” 

“Hoot! none of your whillywhas!’” cries he. “There’s 
intelligence upon both sides. But for my private part 
I have no particular desire to harm King George; and 
as for King James, God bless him! he does very well 
for me across the water. I’m a lawyer, ye see: fond of 
my books and my bottle, a good plea, a weil-drawn 
deed, a crack in the Parliament House with other law- 
yer bodies, and perhaps a turn at the golf on a Satur- 
~ day at e’en. Where do ye come in with your Hieland 
plaids and claymores?” 

“Well,” said I, “it’s a fact ye have little of the wild 
Highlandman.”’ 

“Little?” quoth he. “Nothing, man! And yet I’m 
Hieland born, and when the clan pipes, who but me 
has to dance? The clan and the name, that goes by 
all. It’s just what you said yourself; my father 
learned it to me, and a bonny trade I have of it. 
Treason and traitors, and the smuggling of them out 
and in; and the French recruiting, weary fall it! and 
the smuggling through of the recruits; and their pleas— 
a sorrow of their pleas! Here have I been moving one 
for young Ardshiel, my cousin; claimed the estate 
under the marriage contract—a forfeited estate! I told 
them it was nonsense: muckle they cared! And there 
was I cocking behind a yadvocate that liked the busi- 
ness as little as myself, for it was fair ruin to the pair 
of us—a black mark, disaffected, branded on our 
hurdies like folks’ names upon their kye! And what 


1 Flatteries. 


20 DAVID BALFOUR 


can I do? I’m a Stewart, ye see, and must fend for 
my clan and family. Then no later by than yesterday 
there was one of our Stewart lads carried to the Castle. 
What for? I ken fine: Act of 1736: recruiting for 
King Lewie. And you'll see, he’ll whistle me in to 
be his lawyer, and there’ll be another black mark on 
my chara’ter! I -tell you fair: if I but kent the heid 
of a Hebrew word from the hurdies of it, be damned 
but I would fling the whole thing up and turn 
minister!’ 

“Tt’s a rather hard position,” said I. 

“Dooms hard!” cries he. ‘And that’s what makes 
me think so much of ye—you that’s no Stewart—to 
stick your head so deep in Stewart business. And for 
what, I do not know; unless it was the sense of duty.” 

“J hope it will be that,” said I. 

“Well,” says he, ‘it’s a grand quality. But here is 
my clerk back; and, by your leave, we'll pick a bit of 
dinner, all the three of us. When that’s done, I’ll give 
you the direction of a very decent man, that'll be very 
fain to have you for a lodger. And I'll fill your pockets 
to ye, forbye, out of your ain bag. For this business’ll 
not be near as dear as ye suppose—not even the ship 
part of it.” 

IT made him a sign that his clerk was within hearing. 

“Hoot, ye neednae mind for Robbie.” cries he. “A 
Stewart, too, puir deevil! and has smuggled out more 
French recruits and trafficking Papists than what he 
has hairs upon his face. Why it’s Robin that manages 
that branch of my affairs. Who will we have now, 
Rob, for across the water?” 

“There’ll be Andie Scougal, in the Thistle,’ replied 
Rob. ‘I saw Hoseason the other day, but it seems he’s 
wanting the ship. Then there’ll be Tam Stobo; but 
I’m none so sure of Tam. I’ve seen him colloguing 
with some gey queer acquaintances; and if was any- 
body important, I would give Tam the go-by.” 

“The head’s worth two hundred: pounds, Robin,” 
said Stewart. 


THE HIGHLAND WRITER 21 


“Gosh, that’ll no be Alan Breck?” cried the clerk. 

“Just Alan,” said his master. 

“Weary winds! that’s sayrious,” cried Robin. “T’ll 
try Andie, then; Andie’ll be the best.” 

“Tt seems its quite a big business,” I observed. 

“Mr. Balfour, there’s no end to it,’”’ said Stewart. 

“There was a name your clerk mentioned,’ I went 
on: “Hoseason. That must be my man, I think; 
Hoseason, of the brig Covenant. Would you set your 
trust on him?” 

“He didnae behave very well to you and Alan,” 
said Mr. Stewart; “but my mind of the man in general 
is rather otherwise. If he had taken Alan on board his 
ship on an agreement, it’s my notion he would have 
proved a just dealer. How say ye, Rob?” 

“No more honest skipper in the trade than Eli,” said 
the clerk. “I would lippen to* Eli’s word—ay, if it 
was the Chevalier, or Appin himsel’,” he added. 

“And it was him that brought the doctor, wasnae?” 
asked the master. 

“He was the very man,” said the clerk. 

“And JI think he took the doctor back?” says 
Stewart. 

“Ay, with his sporran full!” cried Robin. “And 
Eli kent of that!”? 

“Well, it seems it’s hard to ken folk rightly,” said I. 

“That was just what I forgot when ye came in, Mr. 
Balfour!” says the Writer. 

* Trust to. 

* This must have reference to Dr. Cameron on his first we 





CHAPTER III 
I GO TO PILRIG 


HE next morning, I was no sooner awake in my 

new lodging than I was up and into my new 
clothes; and no sooner the breakfast swallowed, than 
I was forth on my adventures. Alan, I could hope, 
was fended for; James was like to be a more difficult 
affair, and I could not but think that enterprise might 
cost me dear, even as everybody said to whom I had 
opened my opinion. It seemed I was to come to the 
top of the mountain only to cast myself down; that I 
had clambered up, through so many and hard trials, 
to be rich, to be recognised, to wear city clothes and a 
sword to my side, all to commit mere suicide at the 
last end of it, and the worst kind of suicide besides, 
which is to get hanged at the King’s charges. 

What was I doing it for? I asked, as I went down 
the High Street and out north by Leith Wynd. First 
I said it was to save James Stewart; and no doubt 
the memory of his distress, and his wife’s cries, and a 
word or so I had let drop on that occasion worked 
upon me strongly. At the same time I reflected that 
it was (or ought to be) the most indifferent matter to 
my father’s son, whether James died in his bed or 
from a scaffold. He was Alan’s cousin, to be sure; but 
so far as regarded Alan, the best thing would be to 
lie low, and let the King, and his Grace of Argyle, and 
the corbie crows, pick the bones of his kinsman their 
own way. Nor could I forget that, while we were all 
in the pot together, James had shown no such par- 
ticular anxiety whether for Alan or me. 

Next it came upon me I was acting for the sake of 

22 


I GO TO PILRIG 23 


justice: and I thought that a fine word, and reasoned it 
out that (since we dwelt in politics, at some discomfort 
to each one of us) the main thing of all must still be 
justice, and the death of any innocent man a wound 
upon the whole community. Next, again, it was the 
Accuser of the Brethren that gave me a turn of his 
argument; bade me think shame for pretending myself 
concerned in these high matters, and told me I was 
but a prating vain child, who had spoken big words 
to Rankeillor and to Stewart, and held myself bound 
upon my vanity to make good that boastfulness. Nay, 
and he hit me with the other end of the stick; for he 
accused me of a kind of artful cowardice, going about 
at the expense of a little risk to purchase greater 
safety. No doubt, until I had declared and cleared 
myself, I might any day encounter Mungo Campbell 
or the sheriff’s officer, and be recognised, and dragged 
into the Appin murder by the heels; and, no doubt, in 
case I could manage my declaration with success, I 
should breathe more free for ever after. But when 
I looked this argument full in the face I could see 
nothing to be ashamed of. As for the rest, “Here are 
the two roads,’ I thought, “and both go to the same 
place. It’s unjust that James should hang if I can 
save him; and it would be ridiculous in me to have 
talked so much and then do nothing. It’s lucky for 
James of the Glens that I have boasted beforehand; 
and none so unlucky for myself, because now I’m com- 
mitted to do right. I have the name of a gentleman 
and the means of one; it would be a poor discovery 
that I was wanting in the essence.” And then I 
thought this was a Pagan spirit, and said a prayer in 
to myself, asking for what courage I might lack, and 
that I might go straight to my duty like a soldier to 
battle, and come off again scathless as so many do. 
This train of reasoning brought me to a more re- 
solved complexion; though it was far from closing up 
my sense of the dangers that surrounded me, nor of 
how very apt I was (if I went on) to stumble on the 


24 DAVID BALFOUR 


ladder of the gallows. It was a plain, fair morning, 
but the wind in the east. The little chill of it sang 
in my blood, and gave me a feeling of the autumn, and 
the dead leaves, and dead folks’ bodies in their graves. 
It seemed the devil was in it, 1f I was to die in that 
tide of my fortunes and for other folks’ affairs. On 
the top of the Calton Hill, though it was not the cus- 
tomary time of year for that diversion, some children 
were crying and running with their kites. These toys 
appeared very plain against the sky; I remarked a 
great one soar on the wind to a high altitude and then 
plump among the whins; and I thought to myself at 
sight of it, “There goes Davie.” 

My way lay over Mouter’s Hill, and through an end 
of a clachan on the braeside among fields. There was 
a whir of looms in it went from house to house; bees 
bummed in the gardens; the neighbours that I saw at 
the doorsteps talked in a strange tongue; and I found 
out later that this was Picardy, a village where the 
French weavers wrought for the Linen Company. 
Here I got a fresh direction for Pilrig, my destination; 
and a little beyond, on the wayside, came by a gibbet 
and two men hanged in chains. They were dipped 
in tar, as the manner is; the wind span them, the 
chains clattered, and the birds hung about the uncanny 
jumping-jacks and cried. The sight coming on me 
suddenly, like an illustration of my fears, I could 
searce be done with examining it and drinking in dis- 
comfort. And as I thus turned and turned about the 
gibbet, what should I strike on, but a weird old 
wife, that sat behind a leg of it, and nodded, and talked 
aloud to herself with becks and courtesies. : 

“Who are these two, mother?” I asked, and pointed 
to the corpses. 

“A blessing on your precious face!” she cried. “Twa 
joes’ o’ mine: just twa o’ my old joes, my hinny dear.” 

“What did they suffer for?” I asked. | 

“Ou, just for the guid cause,” said she. “Aften I 


* Sweethearts. 


I GO TO PILRIG 25 


spaed to them the way that it would end. Twa shillin’ 
Scots: no pickle mair; and there are twa bonny callants 
hingin’ for ’t! They took it frae a wean’ belanged to 
Brouchton.” 

“Ay!” said I to myself, and not to the daft limmer, 
“and did they come to such a figure for so poor a 
business? This is to lose all indeed.” 

“Gie’s your loof, hinny,” says she, “and let me spae 
your weird to ye.” 

“No, mother,” said I, “I see far enough the way I 
am. It’s an unco thing to see too far in front.” 

“T read it in your bree,” she said. ““There’s a bonnie 
lassie that has bricht een, and there’s a wee man in a 
braw coat, and a big man m a pouthered wig, and 
there’s the shadow of the wuddy,’ joe, that lies braid 
across your path. Gie’s your loof, hinny, and let Auld 
Merren spae it to ye bonny.” ! 

The two chance shots that seemed to point at Alan 
and the daughter of James More, struck me hard; and 
I fled from the eldritch creature, casting her a baubee, 
which she continued to sit and play with under the 
moving shadows of the hanged. 

My way down the causeway of Leith Walk would 
have been more pleasant to me but for this encounter. 
The old rampart ran among fields, the like of them I 
had never seen for artfulness of agriculture; I was 
pleased, besides, to be so far in the still countryside, 
but the shackles of the gibbet clattered:in my head; 
and the mops and mows of the old witch, and the 
thought of the dead men, hag-rode my spirits. To hang 
on a gallows, that seemed a hard case; and whether a 
man came to hang there for two shillings Scots, or 
(as Mr. Stewart had it) from the sense of duty, once 
he was tarred and shackled and hung up, the difference 
was small. There might David Balfour hang, and 
other lads pass on their errands and think light of him; 
and old daft limmers sit at a leg-foot and spae their 


* Child. * Palm. > Gallows. 


26 DAVID BALFOUR 


fortunes; and the clean genty maids go by, and look to 
the other side, and hold a nose. I saw them plain, and 
they had grey eyes, and their screens upon their heads 
were of the Drummond colours. 

I was thus in the poorest of spirits, though still 
pretty resolved, when I came in view of Pilrig, a pleas- 
ant gabled house set by the walkside among some 
brave young woods. The laird’s horse was standing 
saddled at the door as I came up, but himself was in 
the study, where he received me in the midst of learned 
works and musical instruments, for he was not only a 
deep philosopher but much of a musician. He greeted 
me at first pretty well, and when he had read Ran- 
BAuOne letter, placed himself obligingly at my dis- 
posal. 

“And what is it, cousin David?” says he—“since it 
appears that we are cousins—what is this that I can do 
for you? A word to Prestongrange? Doubtless that 
is easily given. But what should be the word?” 

“Mr. Balfour,” said I, “if I were to tell you my 
whole story the way it fell out, it’s my opinion (and 
it was Rankeillor’s before me) that you would be very 
little made up with it.” 

“T am sorry to hear this of you, kinsman,” says he. 

“T must not take that at your hands, Mr. Balfour,” 
said I; “I have nothing to my charge to make me 
sorry, or you for me, but just the common infirmities 
of mankind. ‘The guilt of Adam’s first sin, the want 
of original righteousness, and the corruption of my 
whole nature,’ so much must I answer for, and I hope 
I have been taught where to look for help,” I said; 
for I judged from the look of the man he would think 
the better of me if I knew my questions.” “But in the 
way of worldly honour I have no great stumble to 
reproach myself with; and my difficulties have befallen 
me very much against my will and (by all that I 
can see) without my fault. My trouble is to have be- 
come dipped in a political complication, which it as 


* My Catechism. 


I GO TO PILRIG 27 


judged you would be blythe to avoid a knowledge of.” 

‘Why, very well, Mr. David,” he replied, “I am 
pleased to see you are all that Rankeillor represented. 
And for what you say of political complications, you 
do me no more than justice. It is my study to be 
beyond suspicion, and indeed outside the field of it. 
The question is,” says he, “how, if 1 am to know 
nothing of the matter, I can very well assist you?” 

“Why, sir,” said I, “I propose you should write to 
his lordship, that I am a young man of reasonable 
good family and of good means: both of which I be- 
lieve to be the case.’’’ 

“T have Rankeillor’s word for it,” said Mr. Balfour, 
“and I count that a warrandice against all deadly.” 

“To which you might add (if you will take my 
word for so much) that I am a good churchman, loyal 
to King George, and so brought up,” I went on. 

“None of which will do you any harm,” said Mr. 
Balfour. 

“Then you might go on to say that I sought his 
lordship on a matter of great moment, connected with 
His Majesty’s service and the administration of Jus- 
tice,” I suggested. 

“As I am not to hear the matter,” says the laird, “I 
will not take upon myself to qualify its weight. 
‘Great moment’ therefore falls, and ‘moment’ along 
with it. For the rest I might express myself much as 
you propose.” 

“And then, sir,” said I, and rubbed my neck a little 
with my thumb, ‘then I would be very desirous if you 
could slip in a word that might perhaps tell for my 
protection.” 

“Protection?” says he, “for your protection? Here 
is a phrase that somewhat dampens me. If the matter 
be so dangerous, I own I would be a little loath to 
move in it blindfold.” 

“T believe I could indicate in two words where the 
thing sticks,” said I. 

“Perhaps that would be the best,” said he. 


28 DAVID BALFOUR ’ 


“Well, it’s the Appin murder,” said I. 

He held up both the hands. “Sirs! sirs!” cried he. 

I thought by the expression of his face and voice 
that I had lost my helper. 

“Let.me explain . ...”’ I began. 

“T thank you kindly, I will hear no more of it,” 
says he. “I decline in toto to hear more of it. For 
your name’s sake and Rankeillor’s, and perhaps a little 
for your own, I will do what I can to help you; but 
I will hear no more upon the facts. And it is my 
first clear duty to warn you. These are deep waters, 
Mr. David, and you are a young man. Be cautious 
and think twice.” 

“It is to be supposed I will have thought oftener 
than that, Mr. Balfour,” said I, “and I will direct 
your attention again to Rankeillor’s letter, where (I 
hope and believe) he has registered his approval of 
that which I design.” 

“Well, well,’ said he; and then again, ‘Well, well! 
I will do what I can for you.” Therewith he took a 
pen and paper, sat awhile in thought, and began to 
write with much consideration. “I understand that 
Rankeillor approves of what you have in mind?” he 
asked presently. 

“After some discussion, sir, he bade me to go forward 
in God’s name,” said I. 

“That is the name to go in,” said Mr. Balfour, and 
resumed his writing. Presently, he signed, re-read 
what he had written, and addressed me again. “Now 
here, Mr. David,’’ said he, ‘is a letter of introduction, 
which I will seal without closing, and give into your 
hands open, as the form requires. But since I am act- 
ing in the dark, I will just read it to you, so that you 
may see if it will secure your end— 


“Pitric, August 26th, 1751. 


“My Lorp—tThis is to bring to your notice my 
namesake and cousin, David Balfour, Esquire, of 


I GO TO PILRIG 29 


Shaws, a young gentleman of unblemished descent and 
good estate. He has enjoyed besides the more valuable 
advantages of a godly training, and his political prin- 
ciples are all that your Lordship can desire I am not 
in Mr. Balfour’s confidence, but I understand him to 
have a matter to declare, touching his Majesty’s serv- 
ice and the administration of justice: purposes for 
which your Lordship’s zeal is known. . I should add that 
the young gentleman’s intention is known to and ap- 
proved by some of his friends, who will watch with 
hopeful anxiety the event of his success or failure.” 

“Whereupon,” continued Mr. Balfour, “I have sub- 
scribed myself with the usual compliments. You ob- 
serve I have said ‘some of your friends’; I hope you 
can justify my plural?” 

“Perfectly, sir; my purpose is known and approved 
by more than one,” said J. “And your letter, which I 
take a pleasure to thank you for, is all I could have 
hoped.” 

“Tt was all I eould squeeze out,” said he; “and 
from what I know of the matter you design to meddle 
in, I can only pray God that it may prove sufficient.” 












CHAPTER IV 
LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE 


Y kinsman kept me to a meal, “for the honour 
of the roof,” he said; and I believe I made the 
better speed on my return. I had no thought but to 
be done with the next stage, and have myself fully 
committed; to a person circumstanced as I was, the 
appearance of closing a door on hesitation and tempta- 
tion was itself extremely tempting; and I was the more 
disappointed when I came to Prestongrange’s house, to 
be informed he was abroad. I believe it was true at 
the moment, and for some hours after; and then I 
have no doubt the Advocate came home again, and 
enjoyed himself in a neighbouring chamber among 
friends, while perhaps the very fact of my arrival 
was forgotten. I would have gone away a dozen times, 
only for this strong drawing to have done with my 
declaration out of hand and be able to lay me down 
to sleep with a free conscience. At first I read, for 
the little cabinet where I was left contained a variety 
of books. But I fear I read with little profit; and 
the weather falling cloudy, the dusk coming up earlier 
than usual, and my cabinet being lighted with but a 
loophole of a window, I was at last obliged to desist 
from this diversion (such as it was), and pass the rest 
of my time of waiting in a very burthensome vacuity. 
The sound of people talking in a near chamber, the 
pleasant note of a harpsichord, and once the voice of 
a lady singing, bore me a kind of company. 
I do not know the hour, but the darkness was long 
come, when the door of the cabinet opened, and I was 
aware, by the light behind him, of a tall figure of a 
man upon the threshold. I rose at once. 
30 


LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE 31 


“Ts anybody there?” he asked. ‘Who is that?” 

“T am bearer of a letter from the laird of Pilrig to 
the Lord Advocate,” said I. 

“Have you been here long?” he asked. 

“TI would not like to hazard an estimate of how many 
hours,” said I. 

“It is the first I hear of it,” he replied, with a 
chuckle. “The lads must have forgotten you. But you 
are in the bit at last, for I am Prestongrange.”’ 

So saying, he passed before me into the next room, 
whither (upon his sign) I followed him, and where he 
lit a candle and took his place before a business-table. 
It was a long room, of a good proportion, wholly lined 
with books. That small spark of light in a corner 
struck out the man’s handsome person and strong face. 
He was flushed, his eye watered and sparkled, and 
before he sat down I observed him to sway back and 
forth. No doubt he had been supping liberally; but 
his mind and tongue were under full control. 

“Well, sir, sit ye down,” said he, ‘‘and let us see 
Pilrig’s letter.” 

He glanced it through in the beginning carelessly, 
looking up and bowing when he came to my name; but 
at the last words I thought I observed his attention to 
redouble, and I made sure he read them twice. All 
this while you are to suppose my heart was beating, 
for I had now crossed my Rubicon and was come 
fairly on the field of battle. 

“T am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bal- 
four,” he said, when he had done. ‘Let me offer you 
a glass of claret.” 

“Under your favour, my lord, I think it would 
scarce be fair on me,” said I. “I have come here, as 
the letter will have mentioned, on a business of some 
gravity to myself; and as I am little used with wine, 
I might be the sooner affected.” 

“You shall be the judge,” said he “But if you 
will permit, I believe I will even have the bottle in 
myself.” 


32 DAVID BALFOUR 


He touched a bell, and a footman came, as at a 
signal, bringing wine and glasses. 

“You are sure you will not join me?” asked the 
Advocate. “Well, here is to our better acquaintance! 
In what way can I serve you?” 

“IT should perhaps begin by telling you, my lord, 
that I am here at your own pressing invitation,” said I. 

“You have the advantage of me somewhere,” said 
he, “for I profess I think I never heard of you before 
this evening.” 

“Right, my lord, my name is indeed new to you,” 
said I. “And yet you have been for some time ex- 
tremely wishful to make my acquaintance, and have 
declared the same in public.” 

“T wish you would afford me a clue,” says he. “I 
am no Daniel.” 

“It will perhaps serve for such,” said I, “that if I 
was in a jesting humour—which is far from the case— 
I believe I might lay a claim on your lordship for two 
hundred pounds.” 

“In what sense?” he inquired. 

“In the sense of rewards offered for my person,” 
said 1. 

He thrust away his glass once and for all, and sat 
straight up in the chair where he had been previously 
lolling. “What am I to understand?” said he. 

“A tall strong lad of about eighteen,’ I quoted, 
“speaks like a Lowlander and has no beard.” 

“T recognise those words,” said he, “which, if you 
have come here with any ill-judged intention of amus- 
ing yourself, are like to prove extremely prejudicial to 
your safety.” 

“My purpose in this,’ I replied, “is just entirely as 
serious as life and death, and you have understood me 
perfectly. I am the boy who was speaking with 
Glenure when he was shot.” 

“I can only suppose (seeing you here) that you claim 
to be innocent,” said he. 

“The inference is clear,” I said. “I am a very 


LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE — 33 


loyal subject to King George, but if I had anything 
to reproach myself with, I would have had more discre- 
tion than to walk into your den.” 

“T am glad of that,” said he. “This horrid crime, 
Mr. Balfour, is of a dye which cannot permit any 
clemency. Blood has been barbarously shed. It has 
been shed in direct opposition to his Majesty and our 
whole frame of laws, by those who are their known 
and public oppugnants. I take a very high sense of 
this. I will not deny that I consider the crime as 
directly personal to his Majesty.” 

“And unfortunately, my lord,” I added, a little drily, 
“directly personal to another great personage who may 
be nameless.” 

“Tf you mean anything by those words, I must tell 
you I consider them unfit for a good subject; and 
were they spoke publicly I should make it my bus- 
iness to take note of them,” said he. ‘You do not 
appear to me to recognise the gravity of your situa- 
tion, or you would be more careful not to pejorate the 


same words which glance upon the purity of justice. 


Justice, in this country, and in my poor hands, is no 
respecter of persons.” 

“You give me too great a share in my own speech, 
my lord,” said I. “I did but repeat the common talk 
of the country, which I have heard everywhere, and 
from men of all opinions as I came along.” 

“When you are come to more discretion you will 
understand such talk is not to be listened to, how 
much less repeated,” says the Advocate. “But I acquit 
you of an ill intention. That nobleman, whom we all 
honour, and who has indeed been wounded in a near 
place by the late barbarity, sits too high to be reached 
by these aspersions. The Duke of Argyle—you see 
that I deal plainly with you—takes it to heart as I 
do, and as we are both bound to do by our judicial 
functions and the service of his Majesty; and I could 
wish that all hands, in this ill age, were equally clean 
of family rancour. But from the accident that this 


34 DAVID BALFOUR 


is a Campbell who has fallen martyr to his duty—as 
who else but the Campbells have ever put themselves 
foremost on that path?—I may say it, who am no 
Campbell—and that the chief of that great house 
happens (for all our advantages) to be the present 
head of the College of Justice, small minds and dis- 
affected tongues are set agog in every changehouse 
in the country; and I find a young gentleman like Mr. 
Balfour so ill-advised as to make himself their echo.” 

So much he spoke with a very oratorical delivery, 
as if in court, and then declined again upon the manner 
of a gentleman. “All this apart,” said he. “It now 
remains that I should learn what I am to do with 
you.” 

“T had thought it was rather I that should learn the 
same from your lordship,” said I. 

“Ay, true,” says the Advocate. “But, you see, you 
come to me well recommended. There is a good 
honest Whig name to this letter,” says he, picking it 
up a moment from the table. “And—extra-judicially, 
Mr. Balfour—there is always the possibility of some 
arrangement. I tell you, and I tell you beforehand 
that you may be the more upon your guard, your fate 
lies with me singly. In such a matter (be it said with 
reverence) I am more powerful than the king’s Maj- 
esty; and should you please me—and of course satisfy 
my conscience—in what remains to be held of our 
interview, I tell you it may remain between ourselves.” 

“Meaning how?” I asked. 

“Why, I mean it thus, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “that 
if you give satisfaction, no soul need know so much as 
that you visited my house; and you may observe that 
I do not even call my clerk.” 

I saw what way he was driving. “I suppose it is 
needless anyone should be informed upon my visit,” 
said I, “though the precise nature of my gains by that 
‘ cannot see. I am not at all ashamed of coming 

ere,” 

“And have no cause to be,” says he, encouragingly. 


LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE — 35 


“Nor yet (if you are careful) to fear the consequences.” 

“My lord,” said I, “speaking under your correction 
I am not very easy to be frightened.” 

“And I am sure I do not seek to frighten you,” says 
he. “But to the interrogation; and let me warn you 
to volunteer nothing beyond the questions I shall ask 
you. It may consist very immediately with your 
safety. I have a great discretion, it is true, but there 
are bounds to it.” 

“JT shall try to follow your lordship’s advice,” said I. 

He spread a sheet of paper on the table and wrote 
a heading. “It appears you were present, by the way, 
in the wood of Lettermore at the moment of the fatal 
shot,’ he began. “Was this by accident?” 

“By accident,” said I. 

eHow came you in speech with Colin Campbell?” he 
asked. 

“{ was inquiring my way of him to Aucharn,” I 
replied. 

I observed he did not write this answer down. 

“Hm, true,” said he, “I had forgotten that. And 
do you know, Mr. Balfour, I would dwell, if I were 
you, as little as might be on your relations with these 
Stewarts? It might be found to complicate our bus- 
iness. I am not yet inclined to regard these matters 
as essential,” 

“T had thought, my lord, that all points of fact were 
equally material in such a case,” said I. 

“You forget we are now trying these Stewarts,” he 
replied, with great significance. “If we should ever 
come to be trying you, it will be very different; and I 
shall press these very questions that I am now willing 
to glide upon. But to resume: I have it here in Mr. 
Mungo Campbell’s precognition that you ran imme- 
diately up the brae. How came that?” 

“Not immediately, my lord, and the cause was my 
seeing of the murderer.” 

“You saw him, then?” 


36 DAVID BALFOUR 


“As plain as I see your lordship, though not so 
near hand.” 

“You know him?” 

“T should know him again.” 

“In your pursuit you were not so fortunate, then, 
as to overtake him?” 

“T was not.” 

‘Was he alone?” 

“He was alone.” 

“There was no one else in the neighbourhood?” 

“Alan Breck Stewart was not far off, in a piece of 
wood.” . 

The Advocate laid his pen down. “I think we are 
playing at cross purposes,” said he, “which you will 
find to prove a very 111 amusement for yourself.” 

“T content myself with following your lordship’s ad- 
vice, and answering what I am asked,” said I. 

“Be so wise as to bethink yourself in time,” said 
he, “I use you with the most anxious tenderness, which 
you scarce seem to appreciate, and which (unless you 
be more careful) may prove to be in vain.” 

“TI do appreciate your tenderness, but conceive it to 
be mistaken,” I replied, with something of a falter, for 
I saw we were coming to grips at last. ‘I am here to 
lay before you certain information, by which I shall 
convince you Alan had no hand whatever in the killing 
of Glenure.” 

The Advocate appeared for a moment at a stick, 
sitting with pursed lips, and blinking his eyes upon 
me like an angry cat. “Mr. Balfour,” he said at last, 
“T tell you pointedly you go an ill way for your own 
interests.” 

“My lord,” I said, “I am as free of the charge of 
considering my own interests in this matter as your 
lordship. As God judges me, I have but the one design, 
and that is to see justice executed and the innocent go 
clear. If in pursuit of that I come to fall under your 
lordship’s displeasure, I must bear it as I may.” 

At this he rose from his chair, lit a second candle, 


LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE — 37 


and for a while gazed upon me steadily. I was sur- 
prised to see a great change of gravity fallen upon his 
Sata and I could have almost thought he was a little 
pale. 

“You are either very simple, or extremely the re- 
verse, and I see that I must deal with you more con- 
fidentially,”’ says he. “This is a political case—ah, 
yes, Mr. Balfour! whether we like it or no, the case is 
political—and I tremble when I think what issues may 
depend from it. To a political case, I need scarce tell 
a young man of your education, we approach with very 
different thoughts from one which is criminal only. 
Salus popult suprema lex is a maxim susceptible of 
great abuse, but it has that force which we find else- 
where only in the laws of nature: I mean it has the 
force of necessity. I will open this out to you, if you 
will allow me, at more length. You would have me 
believe 4 

“Under your pardon, my lord, I would have you to 
believe nothing but that which I can prove,” said I. 

“Tut! tut! young gentleman,” says he, “be not so 
pragmatical, and suffer a man who might be your 
father (if it was nothing more) to employ his own 
imperfect language, and express his own poor thoughts, 
even when they have the misfortune not to coincide with 
Mr. Balfour’s. You would have me to believe Breck 
innocent. I would think this of little account, the more 
so as we cannot catch our man. But the matter of 
Breck’s innocence shoots beyond itself. Once admitted, 
it would destroy the whole presumptions of our case 
against another and a very different criminal; a man 
grown old in treason, already twice in arms against 
his king and already twice forgiven; a fomenter of 
discontent, and (whoever may have fired the shot) the 
unmistakable original of the deed in question. I need 
not tell you that I mean James Stewart.” 

“And IL can just say plainly that the innocence of 
Alan and of James is what I am here to declare in 





38 DAVID BALFOUR 


private to your lordship, and what I am prepared to 
establish at the trial by my testimony,” said I. 

“To which I can only answer by an equal plainness, 
Mr. Balfour,” said he, “that (in that case) your testi- 
mony will not be called by me, and I desire you to 
withhold it altogether.” 

“You are at the head of justice in this country,” I 
cried, ‘‘and you propose to me a crime!” 

“T am a man nursing with both hands the interests 
of this country,” he replied, ‘and I press on you a 
political necessity. Patriotism is not always moral in 
the formal sense. You might be glad of it I think: 
it is your own protection; the facts are heavy against 
you; and if I am still trying to except you from a very 
dangerous place it is in part of course because I am 
not insensible to your honesty in coming here; in part 
because of Pilrig’s letter; but in part, and in chief 
part, because I regard in this matter my political duty 
first and my judicial duty only second. For the same 
reason—I repeat it to you in the same frank words— 
I do not want your testimony.” 

“T desire not to be thought to make a repartee, 
when I express only the plain sense of our position,” 
said I. “But if your lordship has no need of my testi- 
mony, I believe the other side would be extremely 
blithe to get it.” 

Prestongrange arose and began to pace to and fro 
in the room. ‘You are not so young,” he said, “but 
what you must remember very clearly the year ’45 and 
the shock that went about the country. I read in 
Pilrig’s letter that you are sound in Kirk and State. 
Who saved them in that fatal year? I.do not refer 
to His Royal Highness and his ramrods, which were 
extremely useful in their day; but the country had been 
saved and the field won before ever Cumberland came 
upon Drummossie. Who saved it? I repeat; who 
saved the Protestant religion and the whole frame of 
our civil institutions? The late Lord President Cul- 
loden, for one; he played a man’s part, and small 


LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE — 39 


thanks he got for it—even as I, whom you see before 
you, straining every nerve in the same service, look 
for no reward beyond the conscience of my duties done. 
After the President, who else? You know the answer 
as well as I do; ’tis partly a scandal, and you glanced 
at it yourself, and I reproved you for it, when you 
first came in. It was the Duke and the great clan of 
Campbell. Now here is a Campbell foully murdered, 
and that in the King’s service. The Duke and I are 
Highlanders. But we are Highlanders civilised, and it 
is not so with the great mass of our clans and families. 
They have still savage virtues and defects. They are 
still barbarians, like these Stewarts; only the Camp- 
bells were barbarians on the right side, and the 
Stewarts were barbarians on the wrong. Now be you > 
the judge. The Campbells expect vengeance. If they 
do not get it—if this man James escape—there will 
be trouble with the Campbells. That means disturb- 
ance in the Highlands, which are uneasy and very far 
from being disarmed: the disarming is a farce on 

“T can bear you out in that,” said I. 

“Disturbance in the Highlands makes the hour of 
our old watchful enemy,” pursued his lordship, holding 
out a finger as he paced; ‘and I give you my word 
we may have a ’45 again with the Campbells on the 
other side. To protect the life of this man Stewart 
—which is forfeit already on half a dozen different 
counts if not on this—do you propose to plunge your 
country in war, to jeopardise the faith of your fathers, 
and to expose the lives and fortunes of how many thou- 
sand innocent persons? . . . These are considera- 
tions that weigh with me, and that I hope will weigh 
no less with yourself, Mr. Balfour, as a lover of your 
country, good government, and religious truth.” 

“You deal with me very frankly, and I thank you 
for it,” said I. “I will try on my side to be no less 
honest. I believe your policy to be sound. I believe 
these deep duties may lie upon your lordship; I believe 
you may have laid them on your conscience when you 


40 | DAVID BALFOUR 


took the oaths of the high office which you hold. But 
for me, who am just a plain man—or scarce a man 
yet—the plain duties must suffice. I can think but of 
two things, of a poor soul in the immediate and unjust 
danger of a shameful death, and of the cries and tears 
of his wife that still tingle in my head. I cannot see 
beyond, my lord. It’s the way that I am made. If 
the country has to fall, it has to fall. And I pray 
God, if this be wilful blindness, that He may enlighten 
me before too late.” 

He had heard me motionless, and stood so a while 
longer. 

“This is an unexpected obstacle,” says he, aloud, but 
to himself. 

“And how is your lordship to dispose of me?” I 
asked. 

“Tf I wished,” said he, “you know that you might 
sleep in gaol?” 

“My lord,” said I, “I have slept in worse places.” 

“Well, my boy,” said he, “there is one thing appears 
very plainly upon our interview, that I may rely on 
your pledged word. Give me your honour that you 
will be wholly secret, not only on what has passed to- 
night, but in the matter of the Appin case, and I let 
you go free.” 

“TI will give it till to-morrow, or any other near day 
that you may please to set,” said I. “I would not be 
thought too wily; but if I gave the promise without 
qualification your lordship would have attained his 
end.” 

“Tt had no thought to entrap you,” said he. 

“T am sure of that,” said I. 

“Let me see,” he continued. ‘To-morrow is the Sab- 
bath. Come to me on Monday by eight in the morning, 
and give me your promise until then.” 

“Freely given, my lord,” said I. “And with regard to 
what has fallen from yourself, I will give it for as long 
as it shall please God to spare your days.” 


LORD ADVOCATE PRESTONGRANGE 41 


“You will observe,” he said next, “that I have made 
no employment of menaces.” 

“Tt was like your lordship’s nobility,” said I. “Yet I 
am not altogether so dull but what I can perceive the 
nature of those you have not uttered.” 

“Well,” said he, “good-night to you. May you sleep 
well, for I think it is more than I am like to do.” 

With that he sighed, took up a candle, and gave me 
his conveyance as far as the street door. 


CHAPTER V 
IN THE ADVOCATE’S HOUSE 


HE next day, Sabbath, August 27th, I had the 

occasion I had long looked forward to, to hear 
some of the famous Edinburgh preachers, all well 
known to me already by the report of Mr. Campbell. 
Alas! and I might just as well have been at Essen- 
dean, and sitting under Mr. Campbell’s worthy self! 
the turmoil of my thoughts, which dwelt continually 
on the interview with Prestongrange, inhibiting me 
from all attention. I was indeed much less impressed 
by the reasoning of the divines than by the spectacle 
of the thronged congregation in the churches, like what 
I imagined of a theatre or (in my then disposition) of 
an assize of trial; above all at the West Kirk, with its 
three tiers of galleries, where I went in the vain hope 
that I might see Miss Drummond. 

On the Monday I betook me for the first time to a 
barber’s, and was very well pleased with the result. 
Thence to the Advocate’s, where the red coats of the 
soldiers showed again about his door, making a bright 
place in the close. I looked about for the young lady 
and her gillies: there was never a sign of them. But 
I was no sooner shown into the cabinet or antechamber 
where I had spent so weariful a time upon the Satur- 
day, than I was aware of the tall figure of James 
More in a corner. He seemed a prey to a painful un- 
easiness, reaching forth his feet and hands, and his eyes 
speeding here and there without rest about the walls 
of the small chamber, which recalled to me with a 
sense of pity the man’s wretched situation. I suppose 
it was partly this, and partly my strong continuing 

42 


IN THE ADVOCATE’S HOUSE 43 


interest in his daughter, that moved me to accost him. 
- “Give you a good-morning, sir,” said I. 

“And a good-morning to you, sir,” said he. 

“You bide tryst with Prestongrange?” I asked. 

“T do, sir, and I pray your business with that gentle- 
man be more agreeable than mine,” was his reply. 

“T hope at least that yours will be brief, for I suppose 
you pass before me,” said I. 

“All pass before me,” he said, with a shrug and a 
gesture upward of the open hands. “It was not always 
so, sir, but times change. It was not so when the 
sword was in the scale, young gentleman, and the 
virtues of the soldier might sustain themselves.” 

There came a kind of Highland snuffle out of the 
man that raised my dander strangely. 

“Well, Mr. Macgregor,” said I, “I understand the 
main thing for a soldier is to be silent, and the first 
of his virtues never to complain.” 

“You have my name, I perceive,’—-he bowed to me 
- with his arms crossed—‘though it’s one I must not use 
myself. Well, there is a publicity—I have shown my 
face and told my name too often in the beards of my 
enemies. J must not wonder if both should be known 
to many that I know not.” 

“That you know not in the least, sir,” said I, “nor 
yet anybody else; but the name I am called, if you care 
to hear it, is Balfour.” 

“It 1s a good name,” he replied, civilly; “there are 
many decent folk that use it. And now that I call to 
mind, there was a young gentleman, your namesake, 
that marched surgeon in the year ’45 with my bat- 
talion.” 

“T believe that would be a brother to Balfour of 
Baith,” said I, for I was ready for the surgeon now. 

“The same, sir,” said James More. “And since I 
have been fellow-soldier with your kinsman, you must 
suffer me to grasp your hand.” 

He shook hands with me long and tenderly, beaming 
on me the while as though he had found a brother. 


44 DAVID BALFOUR 


“Ah!” says he, “these are changed days since your 
cousin and I heard the balls whistle in our lugs.” 

“T think he was a very far-away cousin,” said I, 
drily, “and I ought to tell you that I never clapped 
eyes upon the man.” 

“Well, well,” said he, “it makes no change. And 
you—I do not mind you were out yourself, sir—I have 
no clear mind of your face, which is not one probable 
to be forgotten.” 

“In the year you refer to, Mr. Macgregor, I was 
getting skelped in the parish school,” said I. 

“So young!” cries he. “Ah, then, you will never be 
able to think what this meeting is to me. In the hour 
of my adversity, and here in the house of my enemy, 
to meet in with the blood of an old brother-in-arms— 
it heartens me, Mr. Balfour, like the skirling of the 
Highland pipes! Sir, this is a sad look-back that 
many of us have to make: some with falling tears. I 
have lived in my own country like a king; my sword, 
my mountains, and the faith of my friends and kins- 
men sufficed for me. Now I lie in a stinking dungeon; 
and do you know, Mr. Balfour,” he went on, taking 
my arm and beginning to lead me about, “do you know, 
sir, that I lack mere necessaries? The malice of my 
foes has quite sequestered my resources. I lie, as you 
know, sir, on a trumped-up charge, of which I am as 
innocent as yourself. They dare not bring me to my 
trial, and in the meanwhile I am held naked in my 
prison. I could have wished it was your cousin I had 
met, or his brother Baith himself. Either would, I 
know, have been rejoiced to help me; while a compar- 
ative stranger like yourself : 

I would be ashamed to set down all he poured out to 
me in this beggarly vein, or the very short and grudg- 
ing answers that I made to him. There were times 
when I was tempted to stop his mouth with some small 
change; but whether it was from shame or pride— 
whether it was for my own sake or Catriona’s— 
whether it was because I thought him no fit father for 





IN THE ADVOCATE’S HOUSE © 45 


his daughter, or because I resented that grossness of 
immediate falsity that clung about the man himself— 
the thing was clean beyond me. And I was still being 
wheedled and preached to, and still being marched to 
and fro, three steps and a turn, in that small chamber, 
and had already, by some very short replies, highly 
incensed, although not finally discouraged, my beggar, 
when Prestongrange appeared in the doorway and bade 
me eagerly into his big chamber. 

“T have a moment’s engagement,” said he; “and 
that you may not sit empty-handed I am going to pre- 
sent you to my three braw daughters, of whom per- 
haps you may have heard, for I think they are more 
famous than papa. This way.” 

He led me into another long room above, where a 
dry old lady sat at a frame of embroidery, and the 
three handsomest young women (I suppose) in Scot- 
land stood together by a window. 

“This is my new friend, Mr. Balfour,” said he, pre- 
senting me by the arm. “David, here is my sister, 
Miss Grant, who is so good as keep my house for 
me, and will be very pleased if she can help you. 
And here,” says he, turning to the three younger ladies, 
“here are my three braw dauchters. A fair question to 
ye, Mr. Davie: which of the three is the best favoured? 
And I wager he will never have the impudence to 
propound honest Alan Ramsay’s answer!” 

Hereupon all three, and the old Miss Grant as well, 
cried out against this sally, which (as I was acquainted 
with the verses he referred to) brought shame into my 
own cheek. It seemed to me a citation unpardonable 
in a father, and J was amazed that these ladies could 
laugh even while they reproved, or made believe to. 

Under cover of this mirth, Prestongrange got forth 
of the chamber, and I was left, like a fish upon dry 
land, in that very unsuitable society. I could never 
deny, in looking back upon what followed, that J 
was eminently stockish; and I must say the ladies were 
well drilled to have so long a patience with me. The 


46 DAVID BALFOUR 


aunt indeed sat close at her embroidery, only looking 
now and again and smiling; but the misses, and espe- 
cially the eldest, who was besides the most handsome, 
paid me a score of attentions which I was very ill able 
to repay. It was all in vain to tell myself I was a 
young fellow of some worth as well as a good estate, 
and had no call to feel abashed before these lasses, the 
eldest not so much older than myself, and no one of 
them by any probability half as learned. Reasoning 
would not change the fact; and there were times when 
_ the colour came into my face to think I was shaved 
that day for the first time. 

The talk going, with all their endeavours, very 
heavily, the eldest took pity on my awkwardness, sat 
down to her instrument, of which she was a passed 
mistress, and entertained me for a while with playing 
and singing, both in the Scots and in the Italian 
manners; this put me more at my ease, and being re- 
minded of Alan’s air that he had taught me in the 
hole near Carriden, I made so bold as to whistle a 
bar or two, and ask if she knew that. 

She shook her head. “I never heard a note of it,” 
said she. ‘Whistle it all through. And now once 
again,” she added, after I had done so. 

Then she picked it out upon the keyboard, and (to 
my surprise) instantly enriched the same with well- 
sounding chords, and sang, as she played, with a very 
droll expression and broad accent— 


“Haenae I got just the lilt of it? 
Isnae this the tune that ye whustled?” 


“You see,” she says, “I can do the poetry too, only it 
won't rhyme.” And then again: 


“I am Miss Grant, sib to the Advocate: 
You, I believe, are Dauvit Balfour.” 


I told her how much astonished I was by her genius. 
“And what do you call the name of it?” she asked. 


IN THE ADVOCATE’S. HOUSE 47 


“I do not know the real name,” said I. “I just call 
it, Alan’s air.” 

She looked at me directly in the face. “I shall call 
it David’s air,’ said she; “though if it’s the least like 
what your namesake of Israel played to Saul I would 
never wonder that the king got little good by it, for 
it’s but melancholy music. Your other name I do 
not like; so if you was ever wishing to hear your tune 
again you are to ask for it by mine.” 

This was said with a significance that gave my heart 
a jog. “Why that, Miss Grant?” I asked. 

“Why,” says she, “if ever you should come to get 
hanged, I will set your last dying speech and confession 
to that tune and sing it.” 

This put it beyond a doubt that she was partly in- 
formed of my story and peril. How, or just how much, 
it was more difficult to guess. It was plain she knew 
there was something of danger in the name of Alan, 
and thus warned me to leave it out of reference; and 
- plain she knew that I stood under some criminal sus- 
picion. I judged besides that the harshness of her 
last speech (which besides she had followed up im- 
mediately with a very noisy piece of music) was to 
put an end to the present conversation. I stood beside 
her, affecting to listen and admire, but truly whirled 
away by my own thoughts. I have always found this 
young lady to be a lover of the mysterious; and cer- 
tainly this first interview made a mystery that was 
beyond my plummet. One thing I learned long after, 
the hours of the Sunday had been well employed, the 
bank-porter had been found and examined, my visit 
to Charles Stewart was discovered, and the deduction 
made that I was pretty deep with James and Alan, and 
most likely in a continued correspondence with the 
last. Hence this broad hint that was given me across 
the harpsichord. 

In the midst of the piece of music, one of the young 
misses, who was at a window over the close, cried on 
her sisters to come quick, for there was “Grey eyes 


48 DAVID BALFOUR 


again.” The whole family trooped there at once, and 
crowded one another for a look. The window whither 
they ran was in an odd corner of that room, gave above 
the entrance door, and flanked up the close. 

“Come, Mr. Balfour,” they cried, “come and see. 
She is the most beautiful creature! She hangs round 
the close-head these last days, always with some 
wretched-like gillies, and yet seems quite a lady.” 

I had no need to look; neither did I look twice, or 
long. I was afraid she might have seen me there, look- 
ing down upon her from that chamber of music, and 
she without, and her father in the same house, perhaps 
begging for his life with tears, and myself come but 
newly from rejecting his petitions. But even that 
glance set me in a better conceit of myself, and much 
less awe of the young ladies. They were beautiful, 
that was beyond question, but Catriona was beautiful 
too, and had a kind of brightness in her like a coal 
of fire. As much as the others cast me down, she lifted 
me up. I remembered I had talked easily with her. 
If I could make no hand of it with these fine maids, it 
was perhaps something their own fault. My embar- 
rassment began to be a little mingled and lightened 
with a sense of fun; and when the aunt smiled at me 
from her embroidery, and the three daughters unbent 
to me like a baby, all with “papa’s orders” written 
on their faces, there were times when I could have 
found it in my heart to smile myself. 

Presently papa returned, the same kind, happy-like, 
pleasant-spoken man. 

“Now, girls,” said he, “I must take Mr. Balfour away 
again; but I hope you have been able to persuade him 
to return where I shall be always gratified to find him.” 

So they each made me a little farthing compliment, 
and I was led away. 

If this visit to the family had been meant to soften 
my resistance, it was the worst of failures. I was no 
such ass but what I understood how poor a figure I 
had made, and that the girls would be yawning their 


IN THE ADVOCATE’S HOUSE 49 


jaws off as soon as my stiff back was turned. I felt 
I had shown how little I had in me of what was soft 
and graceful; and I longed for a chance to prove that 
I had something of the other stuff, the stern and dan- 
gerous. 

Well, I was to be served to my desire, for the scene 
to which he was conducting me was of a different 
character. 


CHAPTER VI 
UMQUHILE THE MASTER OF LOVAT 


HERE was a man waiting us in Prestongrange’s 
study, whom I distasted at the first look, as we 
distaste a ferret or an earwig. He was bitter ugly, but 
seemed very much of a gentleman; had still manners, 
but capable of sudden leaps and violences; and a small 
voice, which could ring out shrill and dangerous when 
he so desired. 

The Advocate presented us in a familiar, friendly 
way. 

“Here, Fraser,” said he, “here is Mr. Balfour whom 
we talked about. Mr. David, this is Mr. Simon Fraser, 
whom we used to call by another title, but that is an 
old song. Mr. Fraser has an errand to you.” 

With that he stepped aside to his book-shelves, and 
made believe to consult a quarto volume in the far end. 

I was thus left (in a sense) alone with perhaps the 
last person in the world I had expected. There was no 
doubt upon the terms of introduction; this could be 
no other than the forfeited Master of Lovat and chief 
of the great clan Fraser. I knew he had led his men | 
in the Rebellion; I knew his father’s head—my old 
lord’s, that grey fox of the mountains—to have fallen 
on the block for that offence, the lands of the family 
to have been seized, and their nobility attainted. I 
could not conceive what he should be doing in Grant’s 
house; I could not conceive that he had been called 
to the bar, had eaten all his principles, and was now 
currying favour with the Government even to the ex- 
tent of acting Advocate-Depute in the Appin murder. 

“Well, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “what is all this I hear 
of ye?” 

59 


THE MASTER OF LOVAT 51 


“Tt would not become me to prejudgeé,” said I, “but 
if the Advocate was your authority he is fully pos- 
sessed of my opinions.” 

“T may tell you I am engaged in the ‘Appin case,” 
he went on; “I am to appear under Prestongrange; 
and from my study of the precognitions I can assure 
you your opimions are erroneous. The guilt of Breck 
is manifest; and your testimony, in which you admit 
you saw him on the hill at the very moment, will 
certify his hanging.” 

. “Tt will be rather ill to hang him till you catch him,’ 
I observed. “And for other matters I very willingly 
leave you to-your own impressions.” 

“The Duke has been informed,” he went on. “I have 
just come from his Grace, and: he expressed himself 
before me with an honest freedom like the great noble- 
man he.is.. He spoke of you by name, Mr. Balfour, 
and declared his gratitude beforehand in case you 
would be led by those who understand your own in- 
terests and those of the country so much better than 
yourself. Gratitude is no empty expression in that 
mouth: erperto crede. JI daresay you know something 
of my name and clan, and the damnable example and 
lamented end of my late father, to say nothing of 
my own errata. Well, I have made my peace with 
that good Duke; he has intervened for me with our 
friend Prestongrange; and here I am with my foot in 
the stirrup again and some of the responsibility shared 
into my hand of prosecuting King George’s enemies 
and avenging the late daring and barefaced insult. to 
his Majesty.” 

“Doubtless a proud position for your father’s son,’ 
says I. 

He wagged his bald eyebrows at me. “You are 
pleased to make experiments in the ironical, I think,” 
said he. “But I am here upon duty, I am here to 
discharge my errand in good faith, it is in vain you 
think to divert me. And let me tell you, for a young 
fellow of spirit and ambition like yourself, a good 


52 DAVID BALFOUR 


shove ‘in the beginning will do more than ten years’ 
drudgery. The shove is now at your command; choose 
what you will to be advanced in, the Duke will watch 
upon you with the affectionate disposition of a father.” 

“Tam thinking that I lack the docility of the son,” 
says I. 

“And do you really suppose, sir, that the whole 
policy of this country is to be suffered to trip up and 
tumble down for an ill-mannered colt of a boy?” he 
cried. “This has been made a test case, all who would 
prosper in the future must put a shoulder to the wheel. 
Look at me! Do you suppose it is for my pleasure 
that I put myself in the highly invidious position of 
prosecuting a man that I have drawn the sword along- 
side of? The choice is not left me.” 

“But I think, sir, that you forfeited your choice when 
you mixed in with that unnatural rebellion,” I re- 
marked. “My case is happily otherwise; I am a true 
man, and can look either the Duke or King George in 
the face without concern.” 

“Ts it so the wind sits?” says he. “I protest you 
are fallen in the worst sort of error.. Prestongrange has 
been hitherto so civil (he tells me) as not to combat 
your allegations; but you must not think they are not 
looked upon with strong suspicion. You say you are 
innocent. My dear sir, the facts declare you guilty.” 

“T was waiting for you there,” said I. 

“The evidence of Mungo Campbell; your flight after 
the completion of the murder; your long course of 
secrecy—my good young man!” said Mr. Simon, “here 
is enough evidence to hang a bullock, let be a David 
Balfour! I shall be upon that trial; my voice shall 
be raised; I shall then speak much otherwise from 
what I do to-day, and far less to your gratification, 
little as you like it now! Ah, you look white!” cries 
he. “I have found the key of your impudent heart. 
You look pale, your eyes waver, Mr. David! You see 
the grave and the gallows nearer by than you had 
fancied.” 


THE MASTER OF LOVAT 53 


' “T own to a natural weakness,” said I. “I think no 
shame for that. Shame . . .” I was going on. 

“Shame waits for you on the gibbet,” he broke in. 

“Where I shall but be even’d with my lord your 
father,” said I. 

“Aha, but not so!” he cried, “and you do not yet 
see to the bottom of this business. My father suffered 
in a great cause, and for dealing in the affairs of kings. 
You are to hang for a dirty murder about boddle- 
pieces. Your personal part in it, the treacherous one 
of holding the poor wretch in talk, your accomplices 
a pack of ragged Highland gillies. And it can be 
shown, my great Mr. Balfour—it can be shown, and it 
will be shown, trust me that has a finger in the pie— 
it can be shown, and shall be shown, that you were - 
paid to do it. I think I can see the looks go round the 
court when I adduce my evidence, and it shall ap- 
pear that you, a young man of education, let yourself 
be corrupted to this shocking act for a suit of cast 
clothes, a bottle of Highland spirits, and three-and- 
fivepence-halfpenny in copper money.” 

There was a touch of the truth in these words that 
knocked me like a blow: clothes, a bottle of usque- 
baugh, and three-and-fivepence-halfpenny in change 
made up, indeed, the most of what Alan and I had 
carried from Aucharn: and I saw that some of James’s 
people had been blabbing i in their dungeons. 

“You see I know more than you fancied,” he re- 
sumed in triumph. “And as for giving it this turn, 
great Mr. David, you must not suppose the Govern- 
ment of Great Britain and Ireland will ever be stuck 
for want of evidence. We have men here in prison who 
will swear out their lives as we direct them; as [ 
direct, if you prefer the phrase. So now you are to 
guess your part of glory if you choose to die. On the 
one hand, life, wine, women, and a duke to be your 
hand-gun: on the other, a rope to your craig, and a 
gibbet to clatter your bones on, and the lousiest, 


54 DAVID BALFOUR 


future that was ever told about a hired assassin. And 
see here!” he cried, with a formidable shrill voice, “see 
this paper that I pull out of my pocket. Look at 
the name there: it is the name of the great David, I 
believe, the ink scarce dry yet. Can you guess its 
nature? It is the warrant for your arrest, which I have 
but to touch this bell beside me to have executed on 
the spot. Once in the Tolbooth upon this paper, may 
God help you, for the die is cast!” 

I must never deny that I was greatly horrified by 
so much baseness, and much unmanned by the im- 
mediacy and ugliness of my danger. Mr. Simon had 
already gloried in the changes of my hue; I make no 
doubt I was now no ruddier than my shirt; my speech 
besides trembled. 

“There is a gentleman in this room,” cried I. “I 
appeal to him. I put my life and credit in his hands.” 
~~Prestongrange shut his book with a snap. “T told 
you so, Simon,” said he; “you have played your hand 
for all it was worth, and you have lost. Mr, David,” 
he went on,.“I wish you to believe it was by no choice 
of mine you were subjected to this proof. I wish you 
could understand how glad I am you should come forth 
from it with so much credit. You may not quite see 
how, but it is a little of a service to myself.. For had 
our friend here been more successful than I was last 
night, it might. have appeared that he was a better 
judge of men than I; it might have appeared we were 
altogether in the wrong situations, Mr. Simon and my- 
self. And I know our friend Simon to be ambitious,” 
says he, striking lightly on Fraser’s shoulder. ‘As 
for this stage play, it is over; my sentiments are very 
much engaged in your behalf; and whatever issue we 
ean find to this unfortunate affair, I shall make it my 
business to see it is adopted with tenderness to you.” 

These were very good words, and 1 could see besides 
that there was. little love, and perhaps .a spice of 


THE MASTER OF LOVAT: 55 


genuine ill-will, between those two who were opposed to 
me. For all that, it was unmistakable this interview 
had been designed, perhaps rehearsed, with the consent 
of both; it was plain my adversaries were in earnest 
to try me by all methods; and now (persuasion, 
flattery, menaces, having been tried in vain) I could 
not but wonder what would be their next expedient. 
My eyes besides were still troubled, and my knees loose 
under me, with the distress of the late ordeal; and I 
could do no more than stammer the same form of 
words: “I put my life and credit in your hands.” 

“Well, well,” says he, “we must try to save them. 
And in the meanwhile let us return to gentler methods. 
You must not bear any grudge upon my friend, Mr. 
Simon, who did but speak by his brief. And even if 
you did conceive some malice against myself, who 
stood by and seemed rather to hold a candle, I must 
not let that extend to innocent members of my family. 
These are greatly engaged to see more of you, and 
I cannot consent to have my young women-folk disap- 
pointed. To-morrow they will be going to Hope Park, 
where I think it very proper you should make your 
bow. Call for me first, when I may possibly have 
something for your private hearing; then you shall be 
turned abroad again under the conduct of my misses; 
and until that time repeat to me your promise of 
secrecy.” 

I had done better to have instantly refused, but in 
truth I was beside the power of reasoning; did as I 
was bid; took my leave I know not how; and when I 
was forth again in the close, and the door had shut 
behind me, was glad to lean on a house wall and wipe 
my face. That horrid apparition (as I may eall it) 
of Mr. Simon rang in my memory, as a sudden noise 
rings after it is over in the ear. Tales of the man’s 
father, of his falseness, of his manifold perpetual 
treacheries; rose before me from all that I had heard 
and read, and joined on with what I had just experi- 
enced of himself. Each time it occurred to me, the 


56 DAVID BALFOUR 


ingenious foulness of that calumny he had proposed to 
nail upon my character startled me afresh. The case 
of the man upon the gibbet by Leith Walk appeared 
scarce distinguishable from that I was now to consider 
as my own. To rob a child of so little more than 
nothing was certainly a paltry enterprise for two grown 
men; but my own tale, as it was to be represented in a 
court by Simon Fraser, appeared a fair second in every 
possible point of view of sordidness and cowardice. 

The voice of two of Prestongrange’s liveried men 
upon his doorstep recalled me to myself. 

“Hae,” said the one, “this billet as fast as ye can 
link to the captain.” 

“Ts that for the cateran back again?” asked the 
other. 

“It would seem sae,” returned the first. “Him and 
Simon are seeking him.” 

“T think Prestongrange is gane gyte,” says the 
second. ‘‘He’ll have James More in bed with him next.” 
“Weel, it’s neither your affair nor mine,” says the 

rst. 

And they parted, the one upon his errand, and the 
other back into the house. 

This looked as ill as possible. I was scarce gone 
and they were sending already for James More, to 
whom I thought Mr. Simon must have pointed when 
he spoke of men in prison ready to redeem their lives 
by all extremities. My scalp curdled among my hair, 
and the next moment the blood leaped in me to re- 
member Catriona. Poor lass! her father stood to be 
hanged for pretty indefensible misconduct. What was 
yet more unpalatable, it now seemed he was prepared 
to save his four quarters by the worst of shame and 
the most foul of cowardly murders—murder by the 
false oath; and to complete our misfortunes, it seemed 
myself was picked out to be the victim. 

I began to walk swiftly and at random, conscious 
only of a desire for movement, air, and the open 
country. 


CHAPTER VII 
I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR 


CAME forth, I vow I know not how, on the Lang 

Dykes’ This is a rural road which runs on the 
north side over against the city. Thence I could see 
the whole black length of it tail down, from where 
the castle stands upon its crags above the loch in a 
long line of spires and gable ends, and smoking chim- 
neys, and at the sight my heart swelled in my bosom. 
My youth, as I have told, was already inured to 
dangers; but such danger as I had seen the face of but 
that morning, in the midst of what they call the safety 
of a town, shook me beyond experience. Peril of 
slavery, peril of shipwreck, peril of sword and shot, I 
had stood all these without discredit; but the peril 
there was in the sharp voice and the fat face of Simon, 
properly Lord Lovat, daunted me wholly. 

I sat by the lake side in a place where the rushes 
went down into the water, and there steeped my wrists 
and laved my temples. If I could have done so with 
any remains of self-esteem I would now have fled from 
my foolhardy enterprise. But (call it courage or 
cowardice, and I believe it was both the one and the 
other) I decided I was ventured out beyond the pos- 
sibility of a retreat. I had out-faced these men, I 
would continue to out-face them; come what might, I 
would stand by the word spoken. 

The sense of my own constancy somewhat uplifted 
my spirits, but not much. At the best of it there was 
an icy place about my heart, and life seemed a black 
business to be at all engaged in. For two souls in 


+ Now Sten Street. 


58 DAVID BALFOUR 


particular my pity flowed. The one was myself, to be 
so friendless and lost among dangers. The other was 
the girl, the daughter of James More. I had seen 
but little of her; yet my view was taken and my judg- 
ment made. I thought her a lass of a clean honour, 
like a man’s; I thought her one to die of a disgrace; 
and now I believed her father to be at that moment 
bargaining his vile life for mine. It made a bond in 
my thoughts betwixt the girl and me. I had seen her 
before only as a wayside appearance, though one that 
pleased me strangely; I saw her now in a sudden near- 
ness of relation, as the daughter of my blood foe, and 
I might say, my murderer. I reflected it was hard 
I should be so plagued and persecuted all my days for 
other folks’ affairs, and have no manner of pleasure 
myself. I got meals and a bed to sleep in when my 
concerns would suffer it; beyond that my wealth was 
of no help tome. If I was to hang, my days were like 
to be short; if I was not to hang but to escape out of 
this trouble, they might yet seem long to me ere [ 
was done with them. Of a sudden her face appeared 
in my memory, the way I had first seen it, with the 
parted lips; at that, weakness came in my bosom and 
strength into my legs; and I set resolutely forward on 
the way to Dean. If I was to hang to-morrow, and it 
was sure enough I might very likely sleep that night in 
a dungeon, I determined I should hear and speak once 
more with Catriona. 

The exercise of walking and the thought of my des- 
tination braced me yet more, so that I began to pluck 
up a kind of spirit. In the village of Dean, where it 
sits in the bottom of a glen beside the river, I inquired 
my way of a miller’s man, who sent me up the hill 
upon the farther side by a plain path, and so to a 
decent-like small house in a garden of lawns and apple 
trees. My heart beat high as I stepped inside the 
garden hedge, but it fell low indeed when I came face 
to face with a grim and fierce old lady, walking there 


I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR 59 


in a white mutch with a man’s hat strapped upon the 
top of it. 

“What do ye come seeking here?” she asked. 

I told her I was after Miss Drummond. 

“And what may be your business with Miss Drum- 
mond?” says she. 

I told her I had met her on Saturday last, had been 
so fortunate as to render her a trifling service, and was 
come now on the young lady’s invitation. 

“O, so you’re Saxpence!” she cried, with a very 
sneering manner. “A braw gift, a bonny gentleman. 
And hae ye ony ither name and-designation, or were ye 
bapteesed Saxpence?” she asked. 

I told my name. 

“Preserve me!” she cried. ‘‘Has Ebenezer gotten a 
son?” - 

“No, ma’am,” said I. “I am a son of Alexander’s. 
It’s I that am the Laird of Shaws.’ 

“VYe'll find your work cut out for ye to establish 
that,” quoth she. 

“T perceive you know my uncle,” said I; “and I 
daresay you may be the better pleased to hear that 
business is arranged.” 

“And what brings ye here after Miss Drummond?” 
she pursued. 

~“T’m- come after my saxpence, mem,” said I. “It’s 
to be thought, being my uncle’s nephew, I would be 
found a careful lad.” 

“So ye have a spark of sleeness in ye?” observed the 
old lady, with some approval. “I thought ye had. just 
been a cuif—you and your saxpence, and your lucky 
day and your sake of Balwhidder”—from which I was 
gratified to learn that Catriona had not forgotten some 
of our talk. “But all this is by the purpose,” she re- 
sumed. “Am I to understand that ye come here keep- 
ing company?” 

“This is surely rather an early question,” said I. 
“The maid is young, so am I, worse fortune. I have 
but seen:her the once. I'll not deny,” I added, making 


60 DAVID BALFOUR 


up my mind to try her with some frankness, “I’ll not 
deny but she has run in my head a good deal since 
I met in with her. That is one thing; but it would 
be quite another, and I think I would look very like a 
fool, to commit myself.” 

“You can speak out of your mouth, I see,” said the 
old lady. ‘Praise God, and so can I! I was fool 
enough to take charge of this rogue’s daughter: a fine 
charge I have gotten; but it’s mine, and I'll carry it 
the way I want to. Do ye mean to tell me, Mr. Bal- 
four of Shaws, that you would marry James More’s 
daughter, and him hanged? Well, then, where there’s 
no possible marriage there shall be no manner of 
carryings on, and take that for said. lLasses are 
bruckle things,” she added, with a nod; ‘‘and though ye 
would never think it by my wrunked chafts, I was a 
lassie mysel’, and a bonny one.” 

“Lady Allardyce,” said I, “for that I suppose to be 
your name, you seem to do the two sides of the talk- 
ing, which is a very poor manner to come to an agree- 
ment. You give me rather a home thrust when you 
ask if I would marry at the gallows’ foot, a young lady 
whom I have seen but the once. I have told you al- 
ready I would never be so untenty as to commit my- 
self. And yet I’ll go some way with you. If I continue 
to like the lass as well as I have reason to expect, it 
will be something more than her father, or the gallows 
either, that keeps the two of us apart. As for my 
family, I found it by the way side like a lost bawbee! 
I owe less than nothing to my uncle; and, if ever I 
marry, it will be to please one person: that’s myself.” 

“T have heard this kind of talk before ye were born,” 
said Mrs. Ogilvy, “which is perhaps the reason that 
I think of it so little. There’s much to be considered. 
This James More is a kinsman of mine, to my shame 
be it spoken. But the better the family, the mair men 
hanged or heided, that’s always been poor Scotland’s 
story. And if it was just the hanging! For my part, 
I think I would be best pleased with James upon the 


I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR 61 


gallows, which would be at least an end to him. 
Catrine’s a good lass enough, and a good-hearted, and 
lets herself be deaved all day with a runt of an auld 
wife like me. But, ye see, there’s the weak bit. She’s 
daft about that long, false, fleeching beggar of a father 
of hers, and red-mad about the Gregara, and pro- 
scribed names, and King James, and a wheen blethers. 
And you might think ye could guide her, ye would find 
yourself sore mista’en. Ye say ye’ve seen her but 
theiondes sigh” 

“Spoke with her but the once, I should have said,” 
I interrupted. “I saw her again this morning from a 
window at Prestongrange’s.”’ 

This I daresay I put in because it sounded well; but 
I was properly paid for my ostentation on the return. 

“What’s this of it?” cries the old lady, with a 
sudden pucker of her face. “I think it was at the 
Advocate’s door-cheek that ye met her first.” 

I told her that was so. 

“H’m,” she said; and then suddenly, upon rather 
a scolding tone, “I have your bare word for it,” she 
cries, “as to who and what you are. By your way of 
it, you’re Balfour of the Shaws; but for what I ken 
you may be Balfour of the Deevil’s oxter. It’s pos- 
sible ye may come here for what ye say, and it’s 
equally possible ye may come here for deil care what! 
I’m good enough Whig to sit quiet, and to have keepit 
all my men-folk’s heads upon their shoulders. But 
I’m not just a good enough Whig to be made a fool of 
neither. And I tell you fairly, there’s too much Ad- 
vocate’s door and Advocate’s window here for a man 
that comes taigling after a Macgregor’s daughter. Ye 
can tell that to the Advocate that sent ye, with my 
fond love. And I kiss my loof to ye, Mr. Balfour,” 
says she, suiting the action to the word; “and a braw 
journey to ye back to where ye cam frae.” 

“Tf you think me a spy,” I broke out, and speech 
stuck in my throat. I stood and looked murder at the 
old lady for a space, then bowed and turned away. 


62 DAVID BAL¥FYOUR 


“Here! Hoots! The callant’s in a creel!” she cried. 
“Think ye a spy? what else would I think ye—me that 
kens naething by ye? But I see that I was wrong; and 
as I cannot fight, I'll have to apologise. A bonny 
figure I would be with a broadsword. Ay! ay!” she 
went on, “you’re none such a bad lad in your way; I 
think ye’ll have some redeeming vices. But, O! Davit 
Balfour, ye’re damned countryfeed. Ye’ll have to win 
over that, lad; ye’ll have to soople your back-bone, 
and think a wee pickle less of your dainty self; and 
ye’ll have to try to find out that women-folk are nae 
grenadiers. But that can never be. To your last day 
you'll ken no more of women-folk than what I do of 
sow-gelding.” 

I had never been used with such expressions from a 
lady’s tongue, the only two ladies I had known, Mrs. 
Campbell and my mother, being most devout and most 
particular women; and I suppose my amazement must 
have been depicted in my countenance, for Mrs. Ogilvy 
burst forth suddenly in a fit of laughter. 

“Keep me!” she cried, struggling with her mirth, 
“you have the finest timber face—and you to marry 
the daughter of a Hieland cateran! Davie, my dear, 
I think we’ll have to make a match of it—if it was 
just to see the weans. And now,” she went on, “there’s 
no manner of service in your daidling here, for the 
young woman is from home, and it’s my fear that the 
old woman is no suitable companion for your father’s 
son. Forbye that I have nobody but myself to look 
after my reputation, and have been long enough alone 
with a sedooctive youth. And come back another 
day for your saxpence!” she cried after me as I left. 

My skirmish with this disconcerting lady gave my 
thoughts a boldness they had otherwise wanted. For 
two days the image of Catriona had mixed in all my 
meditations; she made their background, so that I 
searce enjoyed my own company without a glint of 
her in a corner of my mind. But now she came im- 
mediately near; I seemed to touch her, whom I had 


I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR 63 


never touched but the once; I let myself flow out to 
her in a happy weakness, and looking all about, and 
before and behind, saw the world like an undesirable 
desert, where men go as soldiers on a march, following 
their duty with what constancy they have, and Ca- 
triona alone there to offer me some pleasure of my 
days. I wondered at myself that I could dwell on such 
considerations in that time of my peril and disgrace; 
and when I remembered my youth I was ashamed. I 
had my studies to complete; I had to be called into 
some useful business; I had yet to take my part of 
service in a place where all must serve; I had yet to 
learn, and know, and prove myself a man; and I had 
so much sense as blush that I should be already 
tempted with these further-on and holier delights and 
duties. My education spoke home to me sharply; I 
was never brought up on sugar biscuits but on the hard 
food of the truth. I knew that he was quite unfit to 
be a husband who was not prepared to be a father 
also; and for a boy like me to play the father was a 
mere derision. 

When I was in the midst of these thoughts and 
about half-way back to town I saw a figure coming to 
meet me, and the trouble of my heart was heightened. 
It seemed I had everything in the world to say to her, 
but nothing to say first; and remembering how tongue- 
tied I had been that morning at the Advocate’s I made 
sure that I would find myself struck dumb. But when 
she came up my fears fled away; not even the con- 
sciousness of what I had been privately thinking dis- 
concerted me the least; and I found I could talk with 
her as easily and rationally as I might with Alan. 

“O!” she cried, “you have been: seeking your six- 
pence: did you get it?” 

I told her no; but now I had met with her my walk 
was not in vain. “Though I have seen you to-day 
already,” said I, and told her where and when. 

“T did not see you,” she said. ‘My eyes are big, 


64 DAVID BALFOUR 


but there are better than mine at seeing far. Only 
I heard singing in the house.” 

“That was Miss Grant,” said I, “the eldest and the 
bonniest.” 

“They say they are all beautiful,” said she. 

“They think the same of you, Miss Drummond,” I 
replied, ‘and were all crowding to the window to ob- 
serve you.” 

“It is a pity about my being so blind,” said she, “or 
I might have seen them too. And you were in the 
house? You must have been having the fine time with 
the fine music and the pretty ladies.” 

“That is just where you are wrong,” said I; “for 
I was as uncouth as a sea-fish upon the brae of a 
mountain. The truth is that I am better fitted to go 
about with rudas men than pretty ladies.” 

“Well, I would think so too, at all events!” said she, 
at which we both of us laughed. 

“Tt is a strange thing, now,” said I. “I am not the 
least afraid with you, yet I could have run from the 
Miss Grants. And I was afraid of your cousin too.” 

“QO, I think any man will be afraid of her,” she cried. 
“My father is afraid of her himself.” 

The name of her father brought me to a stop. I 
looked at her as she walked by my side; I recalled 
the man, and the little I knew and the much I guessed 
of him; and comparing the one with the other, felt 
like a traitor to be silent. 

“Speaking of which,” said I, “I met your father no 
later than this morning.” 

“Did you?” she cried, with a voice of joy that 
seemed to mock at me. “You saw James More? You 
will have spoken with him, then?” 

“YT did even that,” said I. 

Then I think things went the worst way for me that 
was humanly possible. She gave me a look of mere 
gratitude. “Ah, thank you for that!” says she. 

“You thank me for very little,” said I, and then 
stopped. But it seemed when I was holding back so 


I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR 65 


much, something at least had to come out. “I spoke 
rather ill to him,” said I; “I did not like him very 
much; I spoke him rather ill, and he was angry.” 

“T think you had little to do then, and less to tell 
it to his daughter!” she cried out. “But those that do 
not love and cherish him I will not know.” 

“T will take the freedom of a word yet,” said I, 
beginning to tremble. “Perhaps neither your father 
nor I are in the best of good spirits at Prestongrange’s. 
I daresay we both have anxious business there, for it’s 
a dangerous house. I was sorry for him too, and spoke 
to him the first, if I could but have spoken the wiser. 
And for one thing, in my opinion, you will soon find 
that his affairs are mending.” 

“Tt will not be through your friendship, I’m think- 
ing,’ said she; “and he is much made up to you for 
your sorrow.” 

“Miss Drummond,’ cried I, “I am alone in this 
WOT ect 

“And I am not wondering at that,” said she. 

“QO, let me speak!” said I. “I will speak but the 
once, and then leave you, if you will, for ever. I came 
this day in the hopes of a kind word that I am sore in 
want of. I know that what I said must hurt you, and 
I knew it then. It would have been easy to have 
spoken smooth, easy to lie to you; can you not think 
how I was tempted to the same? Cannot you see the 
truth of my heart shine out?” 

“T think here is a great deal of work, Mr. Balfour,” 
said she. “I think we will have met but the once, and 
we can part like gentle-folk.” 

“QO, let me have one to believe in me!” I pleaded, 
“T eannae bear it else. The whole world is clanned 
against me. How am I to go through with my dreadful 
fate? If there’s to be none to believe in me I cannot 
do it. The man must just die, for I cannot do it.” 

She had still looked straight in front of her, head in 
air; but at my words or the tone of my voice she came 


66 DAVID BALFOUR 


to astop. “What is this you say?” she asked. ‘What 
are you talking of?” 

“It is my testimony which may save an innocent 
life,” said I, “and they will not suffer me to bear it. 
What would you do yourself? You know what this is, 
whose father lies in danger. Would you desert the 
poor soul? They have tried all ways with me. They 
have sought to bribe me; they offered me hills and 
valleys. And to-day that sleuth-hound told me how J 
stood, and to what a length he would go to butcher 
and disgrace me. I am to be brought in a party to 
the murder; I am to have held Glenure in talk for 
money and old clothes; I am to be killed and shamed. 
If this is the way I am to fall, and me scarce a man 
—if this is the story to be told of me in all Scotland— 
if you are to believe it too, and my name is to be 
nothing but a by-word—Catriona, how can I go 
through with it? The thing’s not possible; it’s more 
than a man has in his heart.” 

I poured my words out in a whirl, one upon the 
other; and when I stopped I found her gazing on me 
with a startled face. | 

“Glenure! It is the Appin murder,” she said softly, 
but with a very deep surprise. 

I had turned back to bear her company, and we were 
now come near the head of the brae above Dean vil- 
lage. At this word I stepped in front of her like one 
suddenly distracted. 

“For God’s sake!” I cried, “for God’s sake, what is 
this that I have done?” and carried my fists to my 
temples. “What made me do it? Sure, 1 am bewitched 
to say these things!” 

a the name of heaven, what ails you now?” she 
cried. 

“T gave my honour,” I groaned, “I gave my honour 
and now I have broke it. O, Catriona!” 

“T am asking you what it is,” she said; “was it 
these things you should not have spoken? And do you 
think J have no honour, then? or that I am one that 


I MAKE A FAULT IN HONOUR 67 


would betray a friend? I hold up my right hand to 
you and swear.” 

“O, I knew you would be true!” said I. “It’s me— 
it’s here. I that stood but this morning and out-faced 
them, that risked rather to die disgraced: upon the 
gallows than do wrong—and a few hours after I throw 
my honour away by the roadside in common talk! 
‘There is one thing clear upon our interview,’ says he, 
‘that I can rely on your pledged word.’ Where is my 
word now? Who could believe me now? You could 
not believe me. I am clean fallen down; I had best 
die!” All this I said with a weeping voice, but I had 
no tears in my body. 

“My heart is sore for you,” said she, “but be sure 
you are too nice. I would not believe you, do you say? 
{ would trust you with anything. And these men? 
IT would not be thinking of them! Men who go about 
to entrap and to destroy you! Fy! this is no time to 
crouch. Look up! Do you not think I will be admir- 
ing you like a great hero of the good—and you a boy 
not much older than myself? And because you said 
a word too much in a friend’s ear, that would die ere 
she betrayed you—to make such a matter! It is one 
thing that we must both forget.” 

“Catriona,” said I, looking at her, hang-dog, “‘is this 
true of it? Would ye trust me yet?” 

“Will you not believe the tears upon my face?” she 
cried. “It is the world I am thinking of you, Mr. 
David Balfour. Let them hang you; I will never for- 
get, I will grow old and still remember you. I think it 
is great to die so; I will envy you that gallows.” 

“And maybe all this while I am but a child frighted 
with bogles,” said I. “Maybe they but make a mock 
of me.” 

“Tt is what I must know,” she said. “I must hear the 
whole. The harm is done at all events, and I must 
hear the whole.” 

I had sat down on the wayside, where she took a 
place beside me, and I told her all that matter much 


68 DAVID BALFOUR 


as I have written it, my thoughts about her father’s 
dealing being alone omitted.” 

“Well,” she said, when I had finished, “you are a 
hero, surely, and I never would have thought that 
same! And I think you are in peril, too. O, Simon 
Fraser! to think upon that man! For his life and the 
dirty money, to be dealing in such traffic!” And just 
then she called out aloud with a queer word that was 
common with her, and belongs, I believe, to her own 
language. “My torture!” says she, “look at the sun!” 

Indeed, it was already dipping towards the moun- 
tains. 

She bid me come again, soon gave me her hand, and 
left me in a turmoil of glad spirits. I delayed to go 
home to my lodging, for I had a terror of immediate 
arrest; but got some supper at a change house, and the 
better part of that night walked by myself in the 
barley-fields, and had such a sense of Catriona’s pres- 
ence that I seemed to bear her in my arms. 


CHAPTER VIII 
THE BRAVO 


HE next day, August 29th, I kept my appoint- 
ment at the Advocate’s in a coat that I had made 
to my own measure, and was but newly ready. 

“Aha,” says Prestongrange, “you are very fine to- 
day; my misses are to have a fine cavalier. Come, I 
take that kind of you. I take that kind of you, Mr. 
David. O, we shall do very well yet, and I believe 
your troubles are nearly at an end.” 

“You have news for me?” cried I. 

“Beyond anticipation,” he replied. ‘Your testimony 
is after all to be received; and you may go, if you will, 
in my company to the trial, which is to be held at 
Inverary, Thursday, 21st proximo.” 

I was too much amazed to find words. 

“Tn the meanwhile,” he continued, “though I will 
not ask you to renew your pledge, I must caution you 
strictly to be reticent. To-morrow your precognition 
must be taken; and outside of that, do you know, I 
think least said will be soonest mended.” 

“T shall try to go discreetly,” said I. “TI believe it is 
yourself that I must thank for this crowning mercy, 
and I do thank you gratefully. After yesterday, my 
lord, this is like the doors of Heaven. I cannot find 
it in my heart to get the thing believed.” 

“Ah, but you must try and manage, you must try 
and manage to believe it,” says he, soothing-like, “and 
I am very glad to hear your acknowledgment of obliga- 
tion, for I think you may be able to repay me very 
shortly”—he coughed—‘or even now. The matter is 
much changed. Your testimony, which I shall not 

69 


70 DAVID BALFOUR 


trouble you for to-day, will doubtless alter the com- 
plexion of the case for all concerned, and this makes 
it less delicate for me to enter with you on a side issue.” 

“My lord,” I interrupted, “excuse me for interrupt- 
ing you, but how has this been brought about? The 
obstacles you told me of on Saturday appeared even 
to me to be quite insurmountable; how has it been 
contrived?” 

“My dear Mr. David,” said he, “it would never do 
for me to divulge (even to you, as you say) the 
councils of the Government; and you must content 
yourself, if you please, with the gross fact.” 

He smiled upon me like a father as he spoke, play- 
ing the while with a new pen; methought it was impos- 
sible there could be any shadow of deception in the 
man: yet when he drew to him a sheet of paper, dipped 
his pen among the ink, and began again to address me, 
I was somehow not so certain, and fell instinctively 
into an attitude of guard. 

“There is a point I wish to touch upon,” he began. 
“T purposely left it before upon one side, which need 
be now no longer necessary. This is not, of course, 
a part of your examination, which is to follow by 
another hand; this is a private interest of my own. 
You say you encountered Alan Breck upon the hill?” 

“T did, my lord,” said I. 

“This was immediately after the murder?” 

“Tt. was.” 

“Did. you speak to him?” 

“T did.” 

“You had known him before, I think?” says my 
lord, carelessly. 

“T cannot guess your reason for so thinking, my 
lord,” I replied, “but such is the fact.” 

“And when did you part with him again?” said he. 

“T reserve my answer,” said I. ‘The question will 
be put to me at the assize.” 

“Mr. Balfour,” said he; “will you not understand 
that all this is without prejudice to yourself? I have 


THE BRAVO 71 


promised you life and honour; and, believe me, 1 
can keep my word. You are therefore clear of all 
anxiety. Alan, it appears, you suppose you can pro- 
tect; and you talk to me of your gratitude, which I 
think (if you push me) is not ill-deserved. There are 
a great many different considerations all pointing the 
same way; and I will never be persuaded that you 
cone not help us (if you chose) to put salt on Alan’s 
tail.’ , 
“My lord,” said I, “I give you my word I do not so 
much as guess where Alan is.” 

He paused a breath. “Nor how he might be found?” 
he: asked. 

I sat before him like a log of wood. 

“And so much for your gratitude, Mr. David!” he 
observed. Again there was a piece of silence. ‘‘Well,” 
said he, rising, “I am not fortunate, and we are a 
couple at cross purposes. Let us speak of it no more; 
you will receive notice when, where, and by whom, we 
are to take your precognition. And in the meantime, 
my misses must be waiting you. They will never for- 
give me if I detain their cavalier.” 

Into the hands of these Graces I was accordingly 
offered up, and found them dressed beyond what I had 
thought possible, and looking fair as a posy. 

As we went forth from the doors a small circum- 
stance occurred which came afterwards to look ex- 
tremely big. I heard a whistle sound loud and brief 
hike a signal, and looking all about, spied for one mo- 
ment the red head of Neil of the Tom, the son of 
Duncan. The next moment he was gone again, nor 
could I see so much as the skirt-tail of Catriona, upon 
whom I naturally supposed him to be then attending. 

My three keepers led me out by Bristo and the 
Bruntsfield Links; whence a path carried us to Hope 
Park, a beautiful pleasance, laid with gravel-walks, 
furnished with seats and summer-sheds, and warded by 
a keeper. The way there was a little longsome; the 
two younger misses affected an air of genteel weariness 


72 DAVID BALFOUR 


that damped me cruelly, the eldest considered me with 
something that at times appeared like mirth; and 
though I thought I did myself more justice than the 
day before, it was not without some effort. Upon our 
reaching the park I was launched on a bevy of eight 
or ten young gentlemen (some of them cockaded 
officers, the rest chiefly advocates) who crowded to at- 
tend upon these beauties; and though I was presented 
to all of them in very good words, it seemed I was 
by all immediately forgotten. Young folk in a com- 
pany are like to savage animals: they fall upon or 
scorn a stranger without civility, or I may say, hu- 
manity; and I am sure, if I had been among baboons, 
they would have shown me quite as much of both. 
Some of the advocates set up to be wits, and some of 
the soldiers to be rattles; and I could not tell which 
of these extremes annoyed me most. All had a manner 
of handling their swords and coat-skirts, for the which 
(in mere black envy) I could have kicked them from 
that park. I daresay, upon their side, they grudged 
me extremely the fine company in which I had arrived; 
and altogether I had soon fallen behind, and stepped 
stiffly in the rear of all that merriment with my own 
thoughts. 

From these I was recalled by one of the officers, 
Lieutenant Hector Duncansby, a gawky, leering High- 
land boy, asking if my name was not “Palfour.” 

I told him it was, not very kindly, for his manner 
was scant civil. 

“Fa, Palfour,” says he, and then, repeating it, ‘“Pal- 
four, Palfour!” 

“T am afraid you do not like my name, sir,” says I, 
annoyed with myself to be annoyed with such a rus- 
tical fellow. 

“No,” says he, “but I was thinking.” 

“T would not advise you to make a practice of that, 
sir,” says I. “I feel sure you would not find it to agree 
with you.” 


THE BRAVO 73 


“Tit you effer hear where Alan Grigor fand the 
tangs?” said he. 

I asked him what he could possibly mean, and he 
answered, with a heckling laugh, that he thought I 
must have found the poker in the same place and swal- 
lowed it. 

There could be no mistake about this, and my cheek 
burned. 

“Before I went about to put affronts on gentlemen,” 
said I, “I think I would learn the English language 
first.” 

He took me by the sleeve with a nod and a wink, 
and led me quietly outside Hope Park. But no sooner 
were we beyond the view of the promenaders, than the 
fashion of his countenance changed. ‘You tam low- 
land scoon’rel!” cries he, and hit me a buffet on the 
jaw with his closed fist. 

I paid him as good or better on the return; where- 
upon he stepped a little back and took off his hat to 
me decorously. 

“Enough plows I think,” says he. “I will be the 
offended shentleman, for who effer heard of such suf- 
feeciency as tell a shentlemans that is the king’s officer 
he canna speak Cot’s English? We have swords at 
our hurdies, and here is the King’s Park at hand. Will 
ye walk first, or let me show ye the way?” 

I returned his bow, told him to go first, and followed 
him. As he went I heard him grumble to himself about 
Cot’s English and the King’s coat, so that I might have 
supposed him to be seriously offended. But his manner 
at the beginning of our interview was there to belie 
him. It was manifest he had come prepared to fasten 
a quarrel on me, right or wrong; manifest that I was 
taken in a fresh contrivance of my enemies; and to 
me (conscious as I was of my deficiencies) manifest 
enough that I should be the one to fall in our encounter. 

As we came into that rough rocky desert of the 
King’s Park I was tempted half a dozen times to take 
to my heels and run for it, so loath was I to show my 


74. DAVID BALFOUR 


ignorance in fencing, and so much averse to die or 
even to be wounded. But I considered if their malice 
went as far as this, it would likely stick at nothing; 
and that to fall by the sword, however ungracefully, 
was still an improvement on the gallows. I considered 
besides that by the unguarded pertness of my words 
and the quickness of my blow I had put myself quite 
out of court; and that even if I ran, my adversary 
would probably pursue and catch me, which would add 
disgrace to my misfortune. So that, taking all in all, I 
continued marching behind him, much as a man follows 
the hangman, and certainly with no more hope. 

We went about the end of the long craigs, and came 
into the Hunter’s Bog. Here, on a piece of fair turf, 
my adversary drew. There was nobody there to see us 
but some birds; and no resource for me but to follow 
his example, and stand on guard with the best face 
I could display. It seems it was not good enough for 
Mr. Duncansby, who spied some flaw in my ma- 
neeuvres, paused, looked upon me sharply, and came 
off and on, and menaced me with his blade in the air. 
As Thad seen no such proceedings from Alan, and was 
besides a good deal affected with the proximity of 
death, I grew quite bewildered, stood helpless, and 
could have longed to run away. 

“Fat deil ails her?” cries the lieutenant. 

And suddenly engaging, he twitched the sword out of 
my grasp and sent it flying far among the rushes. 

Twice was this manceuvre repeated; and the third 
time when I brought back my humiliated weapon, I 
found he had returned his own to the seabbard, and 
stood awaiting me with a face of some anger, and his 
hands clasped under his skirt. 

“Pe tamned if I touch you!” he cried, and asked me 
bitterly what right I had to stand up before “shentle- 
mans” when I did not know the back of a sword from 
the front of it. 

I answered that was the fault of my upbringing; 
and would he do me the justice to say I had given him 


THE BRAVO RD 


all the satisfaction it was unfortunately in my power 
‘to offer, and had stood up like a man? 

“And that is the truth,” said he. “I am fery prave 
myself, and pold as a lions. But to stand up there— 
and you ken naething of fence!—the way that you did, 
I declare it was peyond me. And I am sorry for the 
plow; though I declare I pelief your own was the 
elder brother, and my heid still sings with it. And I 
declare if I had kent what way it wass, I would not 
put a hand to such a piece of pusiness.”’ 

“That is handsomely said,” I replied, ‘and I am sure 
you will not stand up a second time to be the actor for 
my private enemies.” 

“Indeed, no, Palfour,’ said he; “and I think I wass 
used extremely suffeeciently myself to be set up to 
fecht with an auld wife, or all the same as a bairn 
whateffer! And I will tell the Master so, and fecht 
him, by Cot, himself!” 

“And if you knew the nature of Mr. Simon’s quarrel 
with me,” said I, “you would be yet the more affronted 
to be mingled with such affairs.” 

He swore he could well believe it; that all the Lovats 
were made of the same meal and the devil was the 
miller that ground that; then suddenly shaking me by 
the hand, he vowed I was a pretty enough fellow after 
all, that it was a thousand pities I had been neglected, 
and that if he could find the time, he would give an 
eye himself to have me educated. 

“You can do me a better service than even what 
you propose,” said I; and when he had asked its nature 
—“Come with me to the house of one of my enemies, 
and testify how I have carried myself this day,” I 
told him. “That will be the true service. For though 
he has sent me a gallant adversary for the first, the 
thought in Mr. Simon’s mind is merely murder. There 
will be a second and then a third; and by what you 
have seen of my cleverness with the cold steel, you 
can judge for yourself what is like to be the upshot.” — 

“And I would not like it myself, if I was no more of 


76 DAVID BALFOUR 


a man that what you wass!” he cried. “But I will do 
you right, Palfour. Lead on!” 

If I had walked slowly on the way into that ac- 
cursed park my heels were light enough on the way 
out. They kept time to a very good old air, that is 
as ancient as the Bible, and the words of it are: 
“Surely the bitterness of death is passed.” I mind that 
I was extremely thirsty, and had a drink at Saint 
Margaret’s well on the road down, and the sweetness 
of that water passed belief. We went through the 
sanctuary, up the Canongate, in by the Netherbow, and 
straight to Prestongrange’s door, talking as we came 
and arranging the details of our affair. The footman 
owned his master was at home, but declared him en- 
gaged with other gentlemen on very private business, 
and his door forbidden. 

“My business is but for three minutes, and it can- 
not wait,” said I. “You may say it is by no means 
private, and I shall be even glad to have some wit- 
nesses.” 

As the man departed unwillingly enough upon his 
errand, we made so bold as to follow him to the ante- 
chamber, whence I could hear for a while the murmur- 
ing of several voices in the room within. The truth 
is, they were three at the one table—Prestongrange, 
Simon Fraser, and Mr. Erskine, Sheriff of Perth; and 
as they were met in consultation on the very business 
of the Appin murder, they were a little disturbed at 
my appearance, but decided to receive me. 

“Well, well, Mr. Balfour, and what brings you here 
again? and who is this you bring with you?” says 
Prestongrange. 

As for Fraser, he looked before him on the table. 

“He is here to bear a little testimony in my favour, 
my lord, which I think it very needful you should 
hear,” said I, and turned to Duncansby. 

“T have only to say this,” said the lieutenant, ‘that 
I stood up this day with Palfour in the Hunter’s Pog, 
which I am now fery sorry for, and he behaved 


THE BRAVO 77 


himself as pretty as a shentlemans could ask it. And 
IT have creat respects for Palfour,”’ he added. 

“T thank you for your honest expressions,” said I. 

Whereupon Duncansby made his bow to the com- 
Seed and left the chamber, as we had agreed upon be- 
fore. 

“What have I to do with this?” says Prestongrange. 

“T will tell your lordship in two words,” said I. “I 
have brought this gentleman, a King’s officer, to do me 
so much justice. Now I think my character is cov- 
ered, and until a certain date, which your lordship can 
very well supply, it will be quite in vain to despatch 
against me any more officers. I will not consent to 
fight my way through the garrison of the castle.” 

The veins swelled on Prestongrange’s brow, and he 
regarded me with fury. 

“T think the devil uncoupled this dog of a lad be- 
tween my legs!” he cried; and then, turning fiercely on 
his neighbour, “This is some of your work, Simon,” 
he said. “I spy your hand in the business, and, let me 
tell you, I resent it. It is disloyal, when we are agreed 
upon one expedient, to follow another in the dark. You 
are disloyal to me. What! you let me send this lad to 
the place with my very daughters! And because I let 
drop a word to you . . . Fy, sir, keep your dis- 
honours to yourself!” 

Simon was deadly pale. “I will be a kick-ball be- 
tween you and the Duke no longer,” he exclaimed. 
“Hither come to an agreement, or come to a differ, and 
have it out among yourselves. But I will no longer 
fetch and carry, and get your contrary instructions, and 
be blamed by both. For if I were to tell you what I 
think of all your Hanover business it would make your 
head sing.” 

But Sheriff Erskine had preserved his temper, and 
now intervened smoothly. “And in the meantime,” 
says he, “I think we should tell Mr. Balfour that his 
character for valour is quite established. He may sleep 


78 DAVID BALFOUR 


in peace. Until the date he was so good as to refer 
to it shall be put to the proof no more.” 

His coolness brought the others to their prudence; 
and they made haste, with a somewhat distracted 
civility, to pack me from the house. 


CHAPTER IX 
THH HEATHER ON FIRE 


HEN I left Prestongrange that afternoon I was 
for the first time angry. The Advocate had 
made a mock of me. He had pretended my testimony 
was to be received and myself respected; and in that 
very hour, not only was Simon practising against my 
life by the hands of the Highland soldier, but (as ap- 
peared from his own language) Prestongrange himself 
had some design in operation. I counted my enemies: 
Prestongrange with all the King’s authority behind 
him; and the Duke with the power of the West High- 
lands; and the Lovat interest by their side to help 
them with so great a force in the north, and the whole 
clan of old Jacobite spies and traffickers. And when I 
remembered James More, and the red head of Neil the 
son of Duncan, I thought there was perhaps a fourth 
in the confederacy, and what remained of Rob Roy’s 
old desperate sept of caterans would be banded against 
me with the others. One thing was requisite—some 
strong friend or wise adviser. The country must be 
full of such, both able and eager to support me, or 
Lovat and the Duke and Prestongrange had not been 
nosing for expedients; and it made me rage to think 
that I might brush against my champions in the street 
and be no wiser. 

And just then (like an answer) a gentleman brushed 
against me going by, gave me a meaning look, and 
turned into a close. I knew him with the tail of my 
eye—it was Stewart the Writer; and, blessing my good 
fortune, turned to follow him. As soon as I had 
entered the close I saw him standing in the mouth of 

79 


80 DAVID BALFOUR 


a stair, where he made me a signal and immediately 
vanished. Seven storeys up, there he was again in a 
house door, the which he locked behind us after we had 
entered. The house was quite dismantled, with not a 
stick of furniture; indeed, it was one of which Stewart 
had the letting in his hands. 

“We'll have to sit upon the floor,” said he; “but 
we’re safe here for the time being, and I’ve been 
wearying to see ye, Mr. Balfour.” 

“How’s it with Alan?” I asked. 

“Brawly,” said he. ‘Andie picks him up at Gillane 
sands to-morrow, Wednesday. He was keen to say 
good-bye to ye, but the way that things were going, 
I was feared the pair of ye was maybe best apart. 
And that brings me to the essential: how does your 
business speed?” 

“Why,” said I, “I was told only this morning that 
my testimony was accepted, and I was to travel to 
Inverary with the Advocate, no less.” 

“Hout awa!” cried Stewart. ‘“T’ll never believe 
that.” 

“T have maybe a suspicion of my own,” says I, “but 
I would like fine to hear your reasons.” 

“Well, I tell ye fairly, I’m horn-mad,” cries Stewart. 
“Tf my one hand could pull their Government down I 
would pluck it like a rotten apple. I’m doer for Appin 
and for James of the Glens; and, of course, it’s my 
duty to defend my kinsman for his life. Hear how 
it goes with me, and I'll leave the judgment of it to 
yourself. The first thing they have to do is to get rid 
of Alan. They cannae bring in James as art and part 
until they’ve brought in Alan first as principal; that’s 
sound law: they could never put the cart before the 
horse.” 

“And how are they to bring in Alan till they can 
catch him?” says I. 

“Ah, but there’s a way to evite that arrestment,” 
said he. “Sound law, too. It would be a bonny thing 
if, by the escape of one ill-doer, another was to go 


THE HEATHER ON FIRE 81 


scatheless, and the remeid is to summon the principal 
and put him to outlawry for the non-compearance. 
Now there’s four places where a person can be sum- 
moned: at his dwelling-house; at a place where he has 
resided forty days; at the head burgh of the shire 
where he ordinarily resorts; or lastly (if there be 
ground to think him forth of Scotland) at the cross of 
Edinburgh, and the pier and shore of Leith, for sixty 
days. ‘The purpose of which last provision is evident 
upon its face: being that outgoing ships may have 
time to carry news of the transaction, and the sum- 
monsing be something other than a form. Now take 
the case of Alan. He has no dwelling-house that ever 
I could hear of; I would be obliged if anyone would 
show me where he has lived forty days together since 
the ’45; there is no shire where he resorts whether 
ordinarily or extraordinarily; if he has a domicile at 
all, which I misdoubt, it must be with his regiment in 
France; and if he is not yet forth of Scotland (as we 
happen to know and they happen to guess) it must be 
evident to the most dull it’s what he’s aiming for. 
Where, then, and what way should he be summoned? 
I ask it at yourself, a layman.” 

“You have given the very words,” said I. “Here 
at the cross, and at the pier and shore of Leith, for 
sixty days.” 

“Ye’re a sounder Scots lawyer than Prestongrange 
then!” cries the Writer. ‘He has had Alan summoned 
once; that was on the twenty-fifth, the day that we 
first met. Once, and done with it, And where? 
Where, but at the cross of Inverary, the head burgh 
of the Campbells? A word in your ear, Mr. Balfour 
—they’re not seeking Alan.” 

“What do you mean?” I cried. “Not seeking him?” 

“By the best that I can make of it,” said he. “Not 
wanting to find him, in my poor thought. They think 
perhaps he might set up a fair defence, upon the back 
of which James, the man they’re really after, might 
climb out. This is not a case, ye see, it’s a conspiracy.” 


82 DAVID BALFOUR 


“Vet I can tell you Prestongrange asked after Alan 
keenly,” said I; “though, when I come to think of it, 
he was something of the easiest put by.” 

‘See that!’ says he. “But there! I may be right 
or wrong, that’s guesswork at the best, and let me get 
to my facts again. It comes to my ears that James 
and the witnesses—the witnesses, Mr. Balfour!—lay 
in close dungeons, and shackled forbye, in the military 
prison at Fort William; none allowed in to them, nor 
they to write. The witnesses, Mr. Balfour; heard ye 
ever the match of that? I assure ye, no old, crooked 
Stewart of the gang ever out-faced the law more im- 
pudently. It’s clean in the two eyes of the Act of 
Parliament of 1700, anent wrongous imprisonment. No 
sooner did I get the news than I petitioned the Lord 
Justice-Clerk. I have his word to-day. There’s law 
for ye! here’s justice!” 

He put a paper in my hand, that same mealy- 
mouthed, false-faced paper that was printed since in 
the pamphlet “by a bystander,” for behoof (as the title 
says) of James’s “poor widow and five children.” 

“See,” said Stewart, “he couldn’t dare to refuse me 
access to my client, so he recommends the commanding 
officer to let me in. Recommends!—that Lord Justice- 
Clerk of Scotland recommends. Is not the purpose of 
such language plain? They hope the officer may be 
so dull, or so very much the reverse, as to refuse the 
recommendation. I would have to make the journey 
back again betwixt here and Fort William. Then would 
follow a fresh delay till I got fresh authority, and 
they had disavowed the officer—military man, notori- 
ously ignorant of the law, and that—I ken the cant 
of it. Then the journey a third time; and there we 
should be on the immediate heels of the trial before 
I had received my first instruction. Am I not right to 
call this a conspiracy?” 

“Tt will bear that colour,” said I. 

“And I'll go on to prove it you outright,” said he. 
“They have the right to hold James in prison, yet they 





THE HEATHER ON FIRE 83 


cannot deny me to visit him. They have no right to 
hold the witnesses; but am I to get a sight of them, 
that should be as free as the Lord Justice-Clerk him- 
self? See—read: For the rest, refuses to give any 
orders to keepers of prisons who are not accused as 
having done anything contrary to the duties of their 
office. Anything contrary! Sirs! And the Act of 
seventeen hunner? Mr. Balfour, this makes my heart to 
burst; the heather is on fire inside my wame.” 

“And the plain English of that phrase,” said I, “is 
that the witnesses are still to lie in prison and you are 
not to see them?” . 

“And I am not to see them until Inverary, when 
the court is set!” cries he, “and then to hear Preston- 
grange upon the anxious responsibilities of his office 
and the great facilities afforded the defence! But I'll 
begowk them there, Mr. David. I have a plan to way- 
lay the witnesses upon the road, and see if I cannae 
get a little harle of justice out of the military man no- 
toriously zgnorant of the law that shall command the 
party.” 

It was actually so—it was actually on the wayside 
near Tynedrum, and by the connivance of a soldier 
officer, that Mr. Stewart first saw the witnesses upon 
the case. 

“There is nothing that would surprise me in this 
business,” I remarked. 

“T’ll surprise you ere I’m done!” cries he. “Do ye 
see this?”—producing a print still wet from the press. 
“This is the libel: see, there’s Prestongrange’s name 
to the list of witnesses, and I find no word of any Bal- 
four. But here is not the question. Who do ye think 
paid for the printing of this paper?” 

“T suppose it would likely be King George,” said I. 

“But it happens it was me!” he cried. “Not but 
it was printed by and for themselves, for the Grants 
and the Erskines, and yon thief of the black midnight, 
Simon Fraser. But could I win to get a copy? No! 
I was to go blindfold to my defence; I was to hear the 


«84 DAVID BALFOUR 


charges for the first time in court alongst the jury.” 

“Is not this against the law?” I asked. 

“T cannot say so much,” he replied. “It was a favour 
so natural and so constantly rendered (till this none- 
such business) that the law has never looked to it. 
And now admire the hand of Providence! A stranger 
-is in Fleming’s printing house, spies a proof on the 
floor, picks it up, and carries it to me. Of all things, 
it was just this libel. Whereupon I had it set again 
—printed at the expense of the defence: swmptibus 
moestt rei; heard ever man the like of it?—and here 
it is for everybody, the muckle secret out—all may 
see it now. But how do you think I would enjoy this, 
that has the life of my kinsman on my conscience?” 

“Troth, I think you would enjoy it ill,” said I. 

“And now you see how it is,” he concluded, ‘‘and 
why, when you tell me your evidence is to be let in, 
I laugh aloud in your face.” 

It was now my turn. I laid before him in brief Mr. 
Simon’s threats and offers, and the whole incident of 
the bravo, with the subsequent scene at Preston- 
grange’s. Of my first talk, according to promise, I said 
nothing, nor indeed was it necessary. All the time I 
was talking Stewart nodded his head like a mechanical 
figure; and no sooner had my voice ceased, than he 
opened his mouth and gave me his opinion in two 
words, dwelling strong on both of them. 

“Disappear yourself,’”’ said he. 

“T do not take you,” said I. 

“Then I'll carry you there,” said he. “By my view 
of it you're to disappear whatever. O, that’s outside 
debate. The Advocate, who is not without some 
spunks of a remainder of decency, has wrung your life- 
safe out of Simon and the Duke. He has refused to 
put you on your trial, and refused to have you killed; 
and there is the clue to their ill words together, for 
Simon and the Duke can keep faith with neither friend 
nor enemy. Ye’re not to be tried then, and ye’re not 
to be murdered; but I’m in bitter error if ye’re not to 


THE HEATHER ON FIRE 85 


be kidnapped and carried away like the Lady Grange. 
Bet me what ye please—there was their expedient!” 

“You make me think,” said I, and told him of the 
whistle and the red-headed retainer, Neil. 

“Wherever James More is there’s one big rogue, 
never be deceived on that,’ said he. “His father was 
none so ill a man, though a kenning on the wrong side 
of the law, and no friend to my family, that I should 
waste my breath to be defending him! But as for 
James he’s a brock and a blagyard. I like the ap- 
pearing of this red-headed Neil as little as yourself. 
It looks uncanny: fiegh! it smells bad. It was old 
Lovat that managed the Lady Grange affair; if young 
Lovat is to handle yours, it'll be all in the family. 
What’s James More in prison for? The same offence: 
abduction. His men have had practice in the business. 
He’ll be to lend them to be Simon’s instruments; and 
the next thing we’ll be hearing, James will have made 
his peace, or else he’ll have escaped; and you'll be in 
Benbecula or Applecross.” 

“Ye make a strong case,” I admitted. 

“And what I want,” he resumed, “‘is that you should 
disappear yourself ere they can get their hands upon 
ye. Lie quiet until just before the trial, and spring 
upon them at the last of it when they’ll be Icoking 
for you least. This is always supposing, Mr. Balfour, 
that your evidence is worth so very great a measure 
of both risk and fash.” 

“T will tell you one thing,” said I. “I saw the mur- 
derer and it was not Alan.” 

“Then, by God, my cousin’s saved!” cried Stewart. 
“You have his life upon your tongue; and there’s 
neither time, risk, nor money to be spared to bring you 
to the trial.” He emptied his pockets on the floor. 
“Here is all that I have by me,” he went on. ‘Take it, 
ye’ll want it ere ye’re through. Go straight down this 
close, there’s a way out by there to the Lang Dykes, 
and by my will of it! see no more of Edinburgh till 
the clash is over.” 


86 DAVID BALFOUR 


“Where am J to go, then?” I inquired. 

“And I wish that I could tell ye!” says he, “but all 
the places that I could send ye to, would be just the 
places they would seek. No, ye must fend for your- 
self, and God be your guiding! Five days before the 
trial, September the sixteen, get word to me at the 
King’s Arms in Stirling; and if ye’ve managed for 
yourself as long as that, Ill see that ye reach In- 
verary.” 

“One thing more,” said I. “Can I no see Alan?” 

He seemed boggled. ‘‘Hech, I would rather you 
wouldnae,” said he. “But I can never deny that Alan 
is extremely keen of it, and is to lie this night by 
Silvermills on purpose. If you’re sure that you’re not 
followed, Mr. Balfour—but make sure of that—lie in 
a good place and watch your road for a clear hour be- 
fore ye risk it. It would be a dreadful business if both 
you and him was to miscarry!” 


CHAPTER X 
THE RED-HEADED MAN 


T was about half-past three when I came forth on 

the Lang Dykes. Dean was where I wanted to go. 
Since Catriona dwelled there, and her kinsfolk the 
Glengyle Macgregors appeared almost certainly to be 
employed against me, it was just one of the few places 
I should have kept away from; and being a very young 
man, and beginning to be very much in love, I turned 
my face in that direction without pause. As a salve 
to my conscience and common sense, however, I took 
@ measure of precaution. Coming over the crown of 
a bit of a rise in the road, I clapped down suddenly 
among the barley and lay waiting. After a while, 
a man went by that looked to be a Highlandman, but 
I had never seen him till that hour. Presently after 
came Neil of the red head. The next to go past was a 
miller’s cart, and after that nothing but manifest coun- 
try people. Here was enough to have turned the most 
foolhardy from his purpose, but my inclination ran tco 
strong the other way. I argued it out that if Neil was 
on that road, it was the right road to find him in, 
leading direct to his chief’s daughter; as for the other 
Highlandman, if I was to be startled off by every 
Highlandman I saw, I would scarce reach anywhere. 
And having. quite satisfied myself with this disin- 
genuous debate, I made the better speed of it, and came 
a little after four to Mrs. Drummond-Ogilvy’s. 

Both ladies were within the house; and upon my 
perceiving them together by the open door, I plucked 
off my hat and said, “Here was a lad come seeking 
saxpence,” which I thought might please the dowager. 

87 


88 DAVID BALFOUR 


Catriona ran out to greet me heartily, and, to my 
surprise, the old lady seemed scarce less forward than 
herself. I learned long afterwards that she had des- 
patched a horseman by daylight to Rankeillor at the 
Queensferry, whom she knew to be the doer for Shaws, 
and had then in her pocket a letter from that good 
friend of mine, presenting, in the most favourable view, 
my character and prospects. But had I read it I could 
scarce have seen more clear in her designs. Maybe 
I was countryfeed; at least, I was not so much so as 
she thought; and it was plain enough, even to my 
homespun wits, that she was bent to hammer up a 
match between her cousin and a beardless boy that was 
something of a laird in Lothian. 

“Saxpence had better take his broth with us, 
Catrine,” says she. ‘Run and tell the lasses.” 

And for the little while we were alone was at a 
good deal of pains to flatter me; always cleverly, al- 
ways with the appearance of a banter, still calling me 
Saxpence, but with such a turn that should rather 
uplift me in my own opinion. When Catriona re- 
turned, the design became if possible more obvious; 
and she showed off the girl’s advantages like a horse- 
couper with a horse. My face flamed that she should 
think me so obtuse. Now I would fancy the girl was 
being innocently made a show of, and then I could 
have beaten the old carline wife with a cudgel; and 
now, that perhaps these two had set their heads to- 
gether to entrap me, and at that I sat and gloomed 
betwixt them like the very image of ill-will. At last 
the match-maker had a better device, which was to 
leave the pair of us alone. When my suspicions are 
anyway roused it is sometimes a little the wrong side 
of easy to allay them. But though I knew what breed 
she was of, and that was a breed of thieves, I could 
never look in Catriona’s face and disbelieve her. 

“T must not ask?” says she, eagerly, the same mo- 
ment we were left alone. 

“Ah, but to-day I can talk with a free conscience,” 


THE RED-HEADED MAN 89 


I replied. “I am lightened of my pledge, and indeed 
(after what has come and gone since morning) I would 
not have renewed it were it asked.” 

“Tell me,” she said. “My cousin will not be so 
long.” 

So I told her the tale of the lieutenant from the first 
step to the last of it, making it as mirthful as I could, 
and, indeed, there was matter of mirth in that ab- 
surdity. 

“And I think you will be as little fitted for the rudas 
men as for the pretty ladies, after all!” says she, 
when I had done. ‘But what was your father that he 
could not learn you to draw the sword? It is most 
ungentle; I have not heard the match of that in any- 
one.” 

“Tt is most inconvenient at least,” said I; “and I 
think my father (honest man!) must have been wool- 
gathering to learn me Latin in the place of it. But you 
see I do the best I can, and just stand up like Lot’s 
wife and let them hammer at me.” 

“Do you know what makes me smile?” said she. 
“Well, it is this. I am made this way, that I should 
have been a man child. In my thoughts it is so I 
am always; and I go on telling myself about this 
thing that is to befall and that. Then it comes to the 
place of fighting, and it comes over me that I am only 
a girl at all events, and cannot hold a sword or give 
one good blow; and then I have to twist my story 
round about, so that the fighting is to stop, and yet 
me have the best of it, just like you and the lieu- 
tenant; and I am the boy that makes the fine speeches 
all through, like Mr. David Balfour.” 

“You are a bloodthirsty maid,” said I. 

“Well, I know it is good to sew and spin, and to 
make samplers,” she said, “but if you were to do 
nothing else in the great world, I think you will say 
yourself it is a driech business; and it is not that I 
want to kill, I think. Did you ever kill anyone?” 

“That I have, as it chances. Two, no less, and me 


90 DAVID BALFOUR 


still a lad that should be at the college,” said I. “But 
yet, in the look-back, I take no shame for it.” 

“But how did you feel, then—after it?” she asked. 

“ Deed, I sat down and grat like a bairn,” said I. 

“T know that, too,” she cried. “I feel where these 
tears should come from. And at any rate, I would 
not wish to kill, only to be Catherine Douglas that put 
her arm through the staples of the bolt, where it was 
broken. That is my chief hero. Would you not love 
to die so—for your king?” she asked. 

“Troth,” said I, ‘‘my affection for my king, God bless 
the puggy face of him, is under more control; and I 
thought I saw death so near to me this day already, 
that I am rather taken up with the notion of living.” 

“Right,” she said, “the right mind of a man! Only 
you must learn arms; I would not like to have a 
friend that cannot strike. But it will not have been 
with the sword that you killed these two?” 

“Indeed, no,” said I, “but with a pair of pistols. 
And a fortunate thing it was the men were so near- 
hand to me, for I am about as clever with the pistols 
as I am with the sword.” 

So then she drew from me the story of our battle 
in the brig, which I had omitted in my first account 
of my affairs. 

“Yes,” said she, “you are brave. And your friend, 
I admire and love him.” 

“Well, and I think anyone would!” said I. “He 
has his faults like other folk; but he is brave and 
staunch and kind, God bless him! That will be a 
strange day when I forget Alan.” And the thought of 
him, and that it was within my choice to speak with 
him that night, had almost overcome me. 

“And where will my head be gone that I have not 
told my news!” she cried, and spoke of a letter from 
her father, bearing that she might visit him to-morrow 
in the castle whither he was now transferred, and that 
his affairs were mending. “You do not like to hear 


THE RED-HEADED MAN 91 


it,” said she. “Will you judge my father and not know 
him?” 

“I am a thousand miles from judging,” I replied. 
“And I give you my word I do rejoice to know your 
heart is lightened. If my face fell at all, as I suppose 
it must, you will allow this is rather an ill day for 
compositions, and the people in power extremely ill 
persons to be compounding with. I have Simon Fraser 
extremely heavy on my stomach still.” 

“Ah!” she cried, “you will not be evening these two; 
and you should bear in mind that Prestongrange and 
James More, my father, are of the one blood. +4 

“I never heard tell of that,” said I. 

“Tt is rather singular how ‘little you are acquainted 
with,” said she. ‘‘One part may call themselves Grant, 
and one Macgregor, but they are still of the same clan. 
They are all the sons of Alpin, from whom, I think, 
our country has its name.” 

“What country is that?” I asked. 

“My country and yours,” said she. 

“This is my day for discoveries, I think,” said I, “for 
I always thought the name of it was Scotland.” 

“Scotland is the name of what you call Ireland,” she 
replied. “But the old ancient true name of this place 
that we have our foot-soles on, and that our bones are 
made of, will be Alban. It was Alban they called it 
when our forefathers will be fighting for it against 
Rome and Alexander; and it is called so still in your 
own tongue that you forget.” | 

“Troth,” said I, “‘and that I never learned!” For I 
lacked heart to take her up about the Macedonian. 

“But your fathers and mothers talked it, one genera- 
tion with another,” said she. ‘And it was sung about 
the cradles before you or me were ever dreamed of; 
and your name remembers it still. Ah, if you could 
talk that language you would find me another girl. 
The heart speaks in that tongue.” 

I had a meal with the two ladies, all very good, 
served in fine old plate, and the wine excellent, for it 


92 DAVID BALFOUR 


seems that Mrs. Ogilvy was rich. Our talk, too, was 
pleasant enough; but as soon as I saw the sun decline 
sharply and the shadows to run out long, I rose to take 
my leave. For my mind was now made up to say fare- 
well to Alan; and it was needful I should see the 
trysting wood, and reconnoitre it, by daylight. Ca- 
triona came with me as far as to the garden gate. 

“Tt is long till I see you now?” she asked. 

“It is beyond my judging,” I replied. “It will be 
long, it may be never.” 

“Tt may be so,” said she. ‘And you are sorry?” 

I bowed my head, looking upon her. 

“So am J, at all events,” said she. “I have seen 
you but a small time, but I put you very high. You 
are true, you are brave; in time I think you will be 
more of a man yet. I will be proud to hear of that. 
If you should speed worse, if it will come to fall as we 
are afraid—O well! think you have the one friend. 
Long after you are dead and me an old wife, I will 
be telling the bairns about David Balfour, and my 
tears running. [I will be telling how we parted, and 
what I said to you, and did to you. God go with you 
and guide you, prays your little friend: so I said— 
I will be telling them—and here is what I did.” 

She took up my hand and kissed it. This so sur- 
prised my spirits that I cried out like one hurt. The 
colour came strong in her face, and she looked at me 
and nodded. 

“OQ yes, Mr. David,” said she, “that is what I think 
of you. The heart goes with the lips.” 

I could read in her face high spirit, and a chivalry 
like a brave child’s; not anything besides. She kissed 
my hand, as she had kissed Prince Charlie’s with a 
higher passion than the common kind of clay has any 
sense of. Nothing before had taught me how deep 
I was her lover, nor how far I had yet to climb to 
make her think of me in such a character. Yet I 
could tell myself I had advanced some way, and that 


THE RED-HEADED MAN 93 


her heart had beat and her blood flowed at thoughts 
of me. 

After that honour she had done me I could offer no 
more trivial civility. It was even hard for me to 
speak; a certain lifting in her voice had knocked di- 
rectly at the door of my own tears. 

“I praise God for your kindness, dear,” said I. 
“Farewell, my little friend!” giving her that name 
which she had given to herself; with which I bowed 
and left her. 

My way was down the glen of the Leith River, 
towards Stockbridge and Silvermills. A path led in 
the foot of it, the water bickered and sang in the 
midst; the sunbeams overhead struck out of the west 
among long shadows and (as the valley turned) made 
like a new scene and new world of it at every corner. 
With Catriona behind and Alan before me, I was like 
one lifted up. The place besides, and the hour, and 
the talking of the water, infinitely pleased me; and I 
lingered in my steps and looked before and behind me 
as I went. This was the cause, under Providence, that 
I spied a little in my rear a red head among the bushes. 

Anger sprang in my heart, and I turned straight 
about and walked at a stiff pace to where I came from. 
The path lay close to the bushes where I had remarked 
the head. The cover came to the way-side, and as I 
passed I was all strung up to meet and to resist an 
onfall. No such thing befell, I went by unmeddled 
with; and at that fear increased upon me. It was still 
day indeed, but the place exceeding solitary. If my 
haunters had let slip that fair occasion I could but 
judge they aimed at something more than David Bal- 
four. The lives of Alan and James weighed upon my 
spirit with the weight of two grown bullocks. 

Catriona was yet in the garden walking by herself. 

“Catriona,” said I, “you see me back again.” 

“With a changed face,” said she. 

“TI carry two men’s lives besides my own,” said I. 
“Tt would be a sin and a shame not to walk carefully. 


94 DAVID BALFOUR 


{ was doubtful whether I did right to come here. I 
would like it ill, if it was by that means we were 
brought to harm.” 

“T could tell you one that would be liking it less, 
and will like little enough to hear you talking at this 
very same time,” she cried. “What have I done, at 
all events?” 

“O, you! you are not alone,’ I replied. ‘But since 
I went off I have been dogged again, and I can give 
you the name of him that follows me. It is Neil, son 
of Duncan, your man or your father’s.” 

“To be sure you are mistaken there,” she said, with 
a white face. ‘Neil is in Edinburgh on errands from 
my father.” 

“It is what I fear,” said I, “the last of it. But for 
his being in Edinburgh I think I can show you another 
of that. For sure you have some signal, a signal of 

eed, such as would bring him to your help, if he was 
anywhere within the reach of ears and legs?” 

“Why, how will you know that?” says she. 

“By means of a magical talisman God gave to me 
when I was born, and the name they call it by is 
Common-sense,” said I. ‘“Oblige me so far as make 
your signal, and I will show you the red head of 
Neil.” 

No doubt but I spoke bitter and sharp. My heart 
was bitter. I blamed myself and the girl and hated 
both of us: her for the vile crew that she was come 
of, myself for my wanton folly to have stuck my head 
in such a byke of wasps. 

Catriona set her fingers to her lips and whistled once, 
with an exceeding clear, strong, mounting note, as full 
as a ploughman’s. A while we stood silent; and I 
was about to ask her to repeat the same, when I heard 
the sound of some one bursting through the bushes 
below on the braeside. I pointed in that direction with 
a smile, and presently Neil leaped into the garden. 
His eyes burned, and he had a black knife (as they 
call it on the Highland side) naked in his hand; but, 


THE RED-HEADED MAN | 95 


seeing me beside his mistress, stood like a man struck. 

“He has come to your call,” said I; “judge how near: 
he was to Edinburgh, or what was the nature of your 
father’s errands. Ask himself. If I am to lose my 
life, or the lives of those that hang by me, through 
the means of your clan, let me go where I have to go 
with my eyes open.” 

She addressed him tremulously in the Gaelic. Re- 
membering Alan’s anxious civility in that particular, 
I could have laughed out loud for bitterness; here, sure, 
in the midst of these suspicions, was the hour she 
should have stuck by English. 

Twice or thrice they spoke together, and I could 
make out that Neil (for all his obsequiousness) was an 
angry man. 

Then she turned to me. “He swears it is not,” she 
sald. 

en said I, “do you believe the man your- 
self?” 

She made a gesture like wringing the hands. 

“How will I can know?” she cried. 

“But I must find some means to know,” said I. “T 
cannot continue to go dovering round in the black 
night with two men’s lives at my girdle! Catriona, try 
to put yourself in my place, as 1 vow to God I try 
hard to put myself in yours. This is no kind of talk 
that should ever have fallen between me and you; no 
kind of talk; my heart is sick with it. See, keep him 
here till two of the morning, and I care not, Try him 
with that.” 

They spoke together once more in the Gaelic. 

“He says he has James More my father’s errand,” 
said she. She was whiter than ever, and her voice fal- 
tered as she said it. 

“Tt is pretty plain now,” said I, “and may God for- 
give the wicked!” 

She said never anything to that, but continued gazing 
at me with the same white face. 


96 DAVID BALFOUR 


“This is a fine business,” said I again. “Am I to 
fall, then, and those two along with me?” 

“O, what am I to do?” she cried. “Could I go 
against my father’s orders, and him in prison, in the 
danger of his life?” 

“But perhaps we go too fast,” said I. ‘This may 
be a lie too. He may have no right orders; all may 
be contrived by Simon, and your father knowing 
nothing.” , 

_ She burst out weeping between the pair of us; and 
my heart smote me hard, for I thought this girl was in 
a dreadful situation. 

“Here,” said I, “keep him but the one hour; and Ill 
chance it, and say God bless you.” 

She put out her hand to me. “I will be needing one 
good word,” she sobbed. 

“The full hour, then?” said I, keeping her hand in 
mine. ‘Three lives of it, my lass!” 

“The full hour!” she said, and cried aloud on her 
Redeemer to forgive her. 

I thought it no fit place for me, and fled. 


CHAPTER XI 
THE WOOD BY SILVERMILLS 


I LOST no time, but down through the valley and by 
Stockbridge and Silvermills as hard as I could stave. 
It was Alan’s tryst to lie every night between twelve 
and two “in a bit scrog of wood by east of Silvermills 
and by south the south mill-lade.” This I found easy 
enough, where it grew on a steep brae, with the mill- 
lade flowing swift and deep along the foot of it; and 
here I began to walk slower and to reflect more reason- 
ably on my employment. I saw I had made but a 
fool’s bargain with Catriona. It was not supposed that 
Neil was sent alone upon his errand, but perhaps he 
was the only man belonging to James More; in which 
case, I should have done all I could to hang Catriona’s 
father, and nothing the least material to help myself. 
To tell the truth, I fancied neither one of these ideas. 
Suppose, by holding back Neil, the girl should have 
helped to hang her father, I thought she would never 
forgive herself this side of time. And supposing there 
were others pursuing me that moment, what kind of 
a gift was I come bringing to Alan? and how would I 
like that? 

I was up with the west end of that wood when these 
two considerations struck me like a cudgel. My feet 
stopped of themselves and my heart along with them. 
“What wild game is this that I have been playing?” 
thought I; and turned instantly upon my heels to go 
elsewhere. 

This brought my face to Silvermills; the path came 
past the village with a crook, but all plainly visible; 
and, Highland or Lowland, there was nobody stirring. 

97 


98 DAVID BALFOUR 


Here was my advantage, here was just such a con- 
juncture as Stewart had counselled me to profit by, 
and I ran by the side of the mill-lade, fetched about 
beyond the east corner of the wood, threaded through 
the midst of it, and returned to the west selvage, 
whence I could command the path, and yet be myself 
unseen. Again it was all empty, and my heart began 
to rise. 

For more than an hour J sat close in the border of 
the trees, and no hare or eagle could have kept a more 
particular watch. When that hour began the sun was 
already set, but the sky still all golden and the day- 
light clear; before the hour was done it had fallen to 
be half mirk, the images and distances of things were 
mingled, and observation began to be difficult. All 
that time not a foot of man had come east from Silver- 
mills, and the few that had gone west were honest 
countryfolk and their wives upon the road to bed, Ii 
I were tracked by the most cunning spies in Europe, I 
judged it was beyond the course of nature they could 
have any jealousy of where I was; and going a little 
further home into the wood I lay down to wait for 
Alan. 

The strain of my attention had been great, for I had 
watched not the path only, but every bush and field 
within my vision. That was now at an end. The 
moon, which was in her first quarter, glinted a little 
in the wood; all round there was a stillness of the 
country; and as I lay there on my back, the next three 
or four hours, I had a fine occasion to review my con- 
duct. 

Two things became plain to me first: that I had had 
no right to go that day to Dean, and (having gone 
there) had now no right to be lying where I was. This 
(where Alan was to come) was just the one wood in 
all broad Scotland that was, by every proper feeling, 
closed against me; I admitted that, and yet stayed on, 
wondering at myself. J thought of the measure with 
which I had meted to Catriona that same night; how 


THE WOOD BY SILVERMILLS 99 


I had prated of the two lives I carried, and had thus 
forced her to enjeopardy her father’s; and how I was 
here exposing them again, it seemed in wantonness, A 
good conscience is eight parts of courage. No sooner 
had I lost conceit. of my behaviour, than I seemed to 
stand disarmed amidst a throng of terrors. Of a 
sudden I sat up. How if I went right now to Preston- 
grange, caught him (as I still easily might) before 
he slept, and made a full submission? Who could 
blame me? Not Stewart the Writer; I had but to say 
that I was followed, despaired of getting clear, and 
so gave in. Not Catriona: here, too, [ had my answer 
ready; that I could not bear she should expose her 
father. So, in a moment, I could lay all these troubles 
by, which were after all and truly none of mine; swim 
clear of the Appin murder; get forth out of hand-stroke 
of all the Stewarts and Campbells, all the Whigs and 
Tories, in the land; and live thenceforth to my own 
mind, and be able to enjoy and to improve my for- 
tunes, and devote some hours of my youth to courting 
Catriona, which would be surely a more suitable oc- 
cupation than to hide and run and be followed like 
a hunted thief, and begin over again the dreadful mis- 
eries of my escape with Alan. 

At first I thought no shame at this capitulation; I 
was only amazed I had not thought upon the thing and 
done it earlier; and began to inquire into the causes 
of the change. These I traced to my lowness of 
spirits, that back to my late recklessness, and that 
again to the common, old, public, disconsidered sin of 
self-indulgence. Instantly the text came in my head, 
“How can Satan cast out Satan?” What? (1 thought) 
I had, by self-indulgence, and the following of pleas- 
ant paths, and the lure of a young maid, cast myself 
wholly out of conceit with my own character, and 
jeopardised the lives of James and Alan? And I was 
to seek the way out by the same road as I had entered 
it? No; the hurt that had been caused by self- 
indulgence must be cured by self-denial; the flesh I had 


100 DAVID BALFOUR 


pampered must be crucified. I looked about me for 
that course which I least liked to follow: this was to 
leave the wood without waiting to see Alan, and go 
forth again alone, in the dark and in the midst of my 
perplexed and dangerous fortunes. 

I have been the more careful to narrate this passage 
of my reflections, because I think it is of some utility, 
and may serve as an example to young men. But there 
is reason (they say) in planting kale, and even in ethic 
and religion, room for common sense. It was already 
close on Alan’s hour, and the moon was down. If I 
ieft (as I could not very decently whistle to my spies 
to follow me) they might miss me in the dark and 
tack themselves to Alan by mistake. If I stayed, I 
could at the least of it set my friend upon his guard 
which might prove his mere salvation. I had adven- 
tured other peoples’ safety in a course of self- 
indulgence; to have endangered them again, and now 
on a mere design of penance, would have been scarce 
rational, Accordingly, I had scarce risen from my 
place ere I sat down again, but already in a different 
frame of spirits, and equally marvelling at my past 
weakness and rejoicing in my present composure. 

Presently after came a crackling in the thicket. Put- 
ting my mouth near down to the ground, I whistled a 
note or two of Alan’s air; an answer came, in the like 
guarded tone, and soon we had knocked together in 
the dark. 

“Ts this you at last, Davie?” he whispered. 

“Just myself,” said I. 

“God, man, but I’ve been wearying to see ye!” says 
he. “I’ve had the longest kind of a time. A’day, 
I’ve had my dyelling into the inside of a stack of hay, 
where I couldnae see the nebs of my ten fingers; and 
then two hours of it waiting here for you, and you 
never coming! Dod, and ye’re none too soon the way 
it is, with me to sail the morn! The morn? what am 
I saying?—the day, I mean.” 

“Ay, Alan, man, the day, sure enough,” said I. “It’s 


THE WOOD BY SILVERMILLS 101 


past twelve now, surely, and ye sail the day. This’ll 
be a long road you have before you.” 

“We'll have a long crack of it first,” said he. 

“Well, indeed, and I have a good deal it will be 
velling you to hear,” said I. 

And I told him what behooved, making rather a 
jumble of it, but clear enough when done. He heard 
me out with very few questions, laughing here and 
there like a man delighted: and the sound of his laugh- 
ing (above all there, in the dark, where neither one of 
us could see the other) was extraordinary friendly to 
my heart. 

“Ay, Davie, ye’re a queer character,” says he, when 
I had done: “a queer bitch after a’, and I have no 
mind of meeting with the lke of ye. As for your 
story, Prestongrange is a Whig like yoursel’, so I'll say 
the less of him; and, dod! I believe he was the best 
friend ye had, if ye could only trust him. But Simon 
Fraser and James More are my ain kind of cattle, and 
I'll give them the name that they deserve. The muckle 
black deil was father to the Frasers, a’body kens that; 
and as for the Gregara, I never could abye the reek of 
them since I could stotter on two feet. I bloodied the 
nose of one, I mind, when I was still so wambly on my 
legs that I cowped upon the top of him. A proud man 
was my father that day, God rest him! and I think he 
had the cause. I’ll never can deny but what Robin was 
something of a piper,” he added; “but as for James 
More, the deil guide him for me!” 

“One thing we have to consider,” said I. ‘Was 
Charles Stewart right or wrong? Is it only me they’re 
after, or the pair of us?” 

“And what’s your ain opinion, you that’s a man of 
so much experience?” said he. 

“Tt passes me,” said I. 

“And me too,” says Alan. “Do ye think this lass 
would keep her word to ye?” he asked. 

“IT do that,” said I. 

“Well, there’s nae telling,” said he. ‘And anyway, 


102 DAVID BALFOUR 


that’s over and done: he’ll be joined to the rest of 
them lang syne.” 

“How many would ve think there would be of them?” 
T asked. , 

“That depends,” said Alan. “If it was only you, 
they would likely send two-three lively, brisk young 
birkies, and if they thought that I was to appear in 
the employ, I daresay ten or twelve,” said he. 

It was no use, I gave a little crack of laughter. 

“And I think your own two eyes will have seen me 
drive that number, or the double of it, nearer hand!” 
cries he. 

“Tt matters the less,” said I, “because I am well rid 
of them for this time.” 

“Nae doubt that’s your opinion,” said he; “but I 
wouldnae be the least surprised if they were hunkering 
this wood. Ye see, David man, they’ll be Hieland 
folk. There’ll be some Frasers, I’m thinking, and some 
of the Gregara; and I would never deny but what the 
both of them, and the Gregara in especial, were clever 
experienced persons. A man kens little till he’s driven 
a spreagh of neat cattle (say) ten miles through a 
throng lowland country and the black soldiers maybe 
at his tail. It’s there that I learned a great part of 
my penetration. And ye neednae tell me: it’s better 
than war; which is the next best, however, though 
generally rather a bauchle of a business. Now the 
Gregara have had grand practice.” 

“No doubt that’s a branch of education that was 
left out with me,” said I. 

‘And I can see the marks of it upon. ye constantly,” 
said Alan. “But that’s the strange thing about you 
folk of the college learning: ye’re ignorant, and ye 
cannae see ‘t. Wae’s me for my Greek and Hebrew; 
but, man, I ken that I dinnae ken them—there’s the 
differ of it. Now, here’s you. Ye lie on your wame a 
bittie in the bield of this wood, and ye tell me that 
ye’ve cuist off these Frasers and Macgregors. Why! 


THE WOOD BY SILVERMILLS 103 


Because I couldnae see them, says you. Ye block- 
head, that’s their livelihood.” 

“Take the worst of it,” said I, “and what are we to 
do?” 

“T am thinking of that same,” said he. “We might 
twine. It wouldnae be greatly to my taste; and for- 
bye that, I see reasons against it. First, it’s now unco 
dark, and it’s just humanly possible we might give 
them the clean slip. If we keep together, we make but 
the ae line of it; if we gang separate, we make twae 
of them: the more likelihood to stave in upon some of 
these gentry of yours. And then, second, if they keep 
the track of.us, it may come to a fecht for it yet, 
Davie; and then, I’ll confess I would be blithe to 
have you at my oxter, and I think you would be none 
the worse of having me at yours. So, by my way of it, 
we should creep out of this wood no further gone than 
just the inside of next minute, and hold away east for 
Gillane, where I’m to find my ship. It'll be like old 
days while it lasts, Davie; and (come the time) we'll 
have to think what you should be doing. I’m wae to 
leave ye here, wanting me.” 

“Have with ye, then!” says I. “Do ye gang back 
where you were stopping.” 

“Deil a fear!” said Alan. “They were good folks 
to me, but I think they would be a good deal disap- 
pointed if they saw my bonny face again. For (the 
way times go) I amnae just what ye would call a 
Walcome Guest. Which makes me the keener for your 
company, Mr. David Balfour of the Shaws, and set ye 
up! For, leave aside twa cracks here in the wood with 
Charlie Stewart, I have scarce said black or white since 
the day we parted at Corstorphine.” 

With which he rose from his place, and we began to 
move quietly eastward through the wood. 


CHAPTER XII 
ON THE MARCH AGAIN WITH ALAN 


T was likely between one and two; the moon (as I 

have said) was down; a strongish wind, carrying a 
heavy wrack of cloud, had set in suddenly from the 
west; and we began our movement in as black a night 
as ever a fugitive or a murderer wanted. The white- 
ness of the path guided us into the sleeping town of 
Broughton, thence through Picardy, and beside my old 
acquaintance the gibbet of the two thieves. A little 
beyond we made a useful beacon, which was a light 
in an upper window of Lochend. Steering by this, 
but a good deal at random, and with some trampling 
of the harvest, and stumbling and falling down upon 
the bauks, we made our way across country, and won 
forth at last upon the linky, boggy muirland that they 
call the Figgate Whins. Here, under a bush of whin, 
we lay down the remainder of that night and slum- 
bered. 

The day called us about five. A beautiful morning 
it was, the high westerly wind still blowing strong, but 
the clouds all blown away to Europe. Alan was al- 
ready sitting up and smiling to himself. It was my 
first sight of my friend since we were parted, and I 
looked upon him with enjoyment. He had still the same 
big great-coat on his back; but (what was new) he 
had now a pair of knitted boot-hose drawn above the 
knee. Doubtless these were intended for disguise; but, 
as the day promised to be warm, he made a most un- 
seasonable figure. 

“Well, Davie,” said he, “is this no a bonny morn- 
ing? Here is a day that looks the way that a day 

104 


ON THE MARCH AGAIN 105 


ought to. This is a great change of it from the belly of 
my haystack; and while you were there sottering and 
sleeping I have done a thine that maybe I es over 
seldom.” 

“And what was that?” said I. 

“QO, just said my prayers,” said he. 

“And where are my gentry, as ye call them?” I 
asked. 

“Gude kens,” says he; “and the short and the long 
of it is that we must take our chance of them. Up 
with your foot-soles, Davie! Forth, Fortune, once 
again of it! And a bonny walk we are like to have.” _ 

Sc we went east by the beach of the sea, towards 
where the salt-pans were smoking in by the Esk mouth. 
No doubt there was a by-ordinary bonny blink of 
morning sun on Arthur’s Seat and the green Pentlands; 
and the pleasantness of the day appeared to set Alan 
among nettles. 

“T feel like a gomeral,” says he, “to be leaving Scot- 
land on a day like this. It sticks in my head; I would 
maybe like it better to stay here and hing.” 

“Ay, but ye wouldnae, Alan,” said I. 

“No but what France is a good place too,” he ex- 
plained; “but it’s some way no the same. It’s brawer, 
I believe, but it’s no Scotland. I like it fine when I’m 
there, man; yet I kind of weary for Scots divots and 
the Scots peat-reek.” 

“Tf that’s all you have to complain of, Alan, it’s no 
such great affair,” said IL. 

“And it sets me ill to be complaining, whatever,” 
said he, “and me but new out of yon deil’s hay- 
stack.” 7 

“And so you were unco’weary of your haystack?” 
I asked. 

“Weary’s nae word for it,” said he. “I’m not just 
precisely a man that’s easily cast down; but I do 
better with caller air and the lift above my head. I’m 
like the auld Black Douglas (wasnae’t?) that likit 
better to hear the laverock sing than the mouse cheep, 


106 DAVID BALFOUR 


And yon place, ye see, Davie—whilk was a very suit- 
able place to hide in, as I’m free to own—was pit 
mirk from dawn to gloaming. There were days (or 
nights, for how would I tell one from other?) that 
seemed to me as long as a long winter.” 

“How did you. know the hour to bide your tryst?” 
T asked. 

“The goodman brought me my meat and a drop 
brandy, and a candle-dowp to eat it by, about eleeven,” 
said he. “So, when I had swallowed a bit, it would 
be time to be getting to the wood. There I lay and 
wearied for ye sore, Davie,” says he, laying his hand 
on my shoulder, ‘and guessed when the two hours 
would be about by—unless Charlie Stewart would come 
and tell me on his watch—and then back to the dooms 
haystack. Na, it was a driech employ, and praise the 
Lord that I have warstled through with it!” 

“What did you do with yourself?” I asked. 

“Faith,” said he, “the best I could! Whiles I played 
at the knucklebones. I’m an _ extraordinar good 
hand at the knucklebones, but it’s a poor piece of busi- 
ness playing with naebody to admire ye. And whiles I 
would make songs.” 

“What were they about?” says I. 

“QO, about the deer and the heather,” says he, “and 
about the ancient old chiefs that are all by with it 
long syne, and just about what songs are about in 
general. And then whiles I would make believe I had 
a set of pipes and I was playing. I played some grand 
springs, and I thought I played them awful bonny; 
T vow whiles that I could hear the squeal of them! But 
the great affair is that it’s done with.” 

With that he carried me again to my adventures, 
which he heard all over again with more particularity 
and extraordinary approval, swearing at intervals that 
I was “a queer character of a callant.” 

‘So ye were frich’ened of Sim Fraser?” he asked 
once. 

“In troth was I!” eried I. 


ON THE MARCH AGAIN 107 


“So would I have been, Davie,” said he. “And 
that is indeed a dreidful man. But it is only proper 
to give the deil his due; and I can tell you he is a 
most respectable person on the field of war.” 

“Ts he so brave?” I asked. 

“Brave!” said he. “He is as brave as my steel 
sword.” 

The story of my duel set him beside himself. 

“To think of that!” he cried. “I showed ye the 
trick in Corrynakiegh too. And three times—three 
times disarmed! It’s a disgrace upon my character 
that learned ye! Here, stand up, out with your airn; 
ye shall walk no step beyond this place upon the road 
till ye can do yoursel’ and me mair credit.” 

“Alan,” said I, “this is midsummer madness. Here 
is no time for fencing lessons.” 

“T cannae well say no to that,” he admitted. “But 
three times, man! And you standing there like a straw 
bogle and rinning to fetch your ain sword like a doggie 
with a pocket-napkin! David, this man Duncansby 
must be something altogether by-ordinar! He maun 
be extraordinar skilly. If I had the time, I would 
gang straight back and try a turn at him mysel’. The 
man must be a provost.” | 

“You silly fellow,” said I, “you forget it was just 
me.” 

“Na,” said he, “but three times!” 

“When ye ken yourself that I am fair incompetent,” 
I cried. 

“Well, I never heard tell the equal of it,” said he. 

“T promise you the one thing, Alan,” said I. “The 
next time that we forgather, I’ll be better learned. You 
shall not continue to bear the disgrace of a friend that 
cannot strike.” | | 

“Ay, the next time!” says he. “And when will 
that be, I would like to ken?” 

“Well, Alan, I have had some thoughts of that, too,” 
said I; “and my plan is this. It’s my opinion to be 
called an advocate.” 


108 DAVID BALFOUR 


“That’s but a weary trade, Davie,” said Alan, “and 
rather a blagyard one forbye. Ye would be better in a 
kine’s coat than that.” | 

“And no doubt that would be the way to have us 
meet,” cried I. “But as you’ll be in King Lewie’s coat, 
and J’ll be in King Geordie’s, we’ll have a dainty meet- 
ing of it.” 
~ “There’s some sense in that,” he admitted. 

“An advocate, then, it’ll have to be,” I continued, 
“and I think it a more suitable trade for a gentleman 
that was three times disarmed. But the beauty of the 
thing is this: that one of the best colleges for that 
kind of learning—and the one where my kinsman, 
Pilrig, made his studies—is the college of Leyden in 
Holland. Now, what say you, Alan? Could not a 
cadet of Royal Ecossais get a furlough, slip over the 
marches, and call in upon a Leyden student!” 

“Well, and I would think he could!” cried he. “Ye 
see, I stand well in with my colonel, Count Drummond- 
Melfort; and, what’s mair to the purpose, I have a 
cousin of mine lieutenant-colonel in a regiment of the 
Scots-Dutch. Naething could be mair proper than 
what I would get a leave to see Lieutenant-Colonel 
Stewart of Halkett’s. And Lord Melfort, who is a 
very scienteefic kind of a man, and writes books like 
Cesar, would be doubtless very pleased to have the 
advantage of my observes.” 

“Is Lord Melfort an author, then?” I asked, for 
much as Alan thought of soldiers, I thought more of 
the gentry that write books. 

“The very same, Davie,” said he. “One would think 
a colonel would have something better to attend to. 
But what can I say that make songs?” 

“Well, then,” said I, “it only remains you should 
give me an address to write you at in France; and as 
soon as I am got to Leyden I will send you mine.” 

“The best will be to write me in the care of my 
chieftain,’ said he, “Charles Stewart, of Ardsheil, 
Esquire, at the towx of Melons, in the Isle of France. 


ON THE MARCH AGAIN 109 


It might take long, or it might take short, but it would 
aye get to my hands at the last of it.” ? 

We had a haddock to our breakfast in Musselburgh, 
where it amused me vastly to hear Alan. His great- 
coat and boot-hose were extremely remarkable this 
warm morning, and perhaps some hint of an explana- 
tion had been wise; but Alan went into that matter 
like a business, or I should rather say, like a diversion. 
He engaged the good-wife of the house with some com- 
pliments upon the rizzoring of our haddocks; and the 
whole of the rest of our stay held her in talk about a 
cold he had taken on his stomach, gravely relating all 
manner of symptoms and sufferings, and hearing with 
a vast show of interest all the old wives’ remedies she 
could supply him with in return. 

We left Musselburgh before the first ninepenny 
coach was due from Edinburgh, for (as Alan said) that 
was a rencounter we might very well avoid. The wind, 
although still high, was very mild, the sun shone strong, 
and Alan began to suffer in proportion. From Preston- 
pans he had me aside to the field of Gladsmuir, where 
he exerted himself a great deal more than needful to 
describe the stages of the battle. Thence, at his old 
round pace, we travelled to Cockenzie. Though they 
were building herring-busses there at Mrs. Cadell’s, it 
seemed a desert-like, back-going town, about half full 
of ruined houses; but the ale-house was clean, and 
Alan, who was now in a glowing heat, must indulge 
himself with a bottle of ale, and carry on to the new 
luckie with the old story of the cold upon his stomach, 
only now the symptoms were all different. 

I sat listening; and it came in my mind that I had 
scarce ever heard him address three serious words to 
any woman, but he was always drolling and fleering 
and making a private mock of them, and yet brought 
to that business a remarkable degree of energy and 
interest. Something to this effect I remarked to him, 
when the good-wife (as chanced) was called away. 

“What do ye want?” says he. “A man should aye 


110 DAVID BALFOUR 


put his best foot forrit with the womenkind; he should 
aye give them a bit of a story to divert them, the poor 
lambs! It’s what ye should learn to attend to, David; 
ye should get the principles, it’s like a trade. Now, if 
this had been a young lassie, or onyways bonny, she 
would never have heard tell of my stomach, Davie. 
But aince they’re too old to be seeking joes, they a’ set 
up to be apotecaries. Why? What doIken? They’ll 
be just the way God made them, I suppose. But I 
think a man would be a gomeral that didnae give his 
attention to the same.” 

And here, the luckie coming back, he turned from 
me as if with impatience to renew their former con- 
versation. The lady had branched some while before 
from Alan’s stomach to the case of a goodbrother of 
her own in Aberlady, whose last sickness and demise 
she was describing at extraordinary length. Sometimes 
it was merely dull, sometimes both dull and awful, 
for she talked with unction. The upshot was that I 
fell in a deep muse, looking forth of the window on 
the road, and scarce marking what I saw. Presently 
had any been looking they might have seen me to 
start. 

“We pit a fomentation to his feet,” the good-wife 
was saying, “and a het stane to his wame, and we gied 
him hyssop and water of pennyroyal, and fine, clean 
balsam of sulphur for the hoast. 

“Sir,” says I, cutting very quietly in, “there’s: a 
friend of mine gone by the house.” 

“Ts that e’en sae?” replies Alan, as though it were 
a thing of small account. And then, “Ye were saying. 
mem?” says he; and the wearyful wife went on. 

Presently, however, he paid her with a half-crown 
piece, and she must go forth after the change. 

‘Was it him with the red head?” asked Alan. 

“Ye have it,” said I. 

“What did I tell you in the wood?” he cried. “And 
yet it’s strange he should be here too! Was he his 
lane?” 


ON THE MARCH AGAIN 111 


“His lee-lane for what I could see,” said I. 

“Did he gang by?” he asked. 

“Straight by,” said I, “and looked neither to the 
right nor left.” 

“And that’s queerer yet,” said Alan. “It sticks in 
my mind, Davie, that we should be stirring. But 
where to?—deil hae’t! This is like old days fairly,” 
cries he. 

“There is one big differ, though, ” said I, “that now 
we have money in our pockets,” 

“And another big differ, Mr. Balfour,” says he, 
“that now we have dogs at our tail. They’ re on the 
scent; they’re in full cry, David. It’s a bad business 
and be damned to it.” ‘And he sat thinking hard with 
a look of his that I knew well. 

“I’m saying, Luckie,” says he, when the good-wife 
returned, “have ye a ‘back road out of this change 
house?” 

She told him there was and where it led to. 

“Then, sir,” says he to me, “I think that will be the 
shortest road for us. And here’s good-bye to ye, my 
braw woman; and I’ll no forget thon of the cinnamon 
water.” 

We went out by the way of the woman’s kale yard, 
and up a lane among fields. Alan looked sharply to 
all sides, and seeing we were in a little hollow place 
of the country, out of view of men, sat down. 

“Now for a council of war, Davie,” said he. “But 
first of all, a bit lesson to ye. Suppose that I had been 
like you, what would yon old wife have minded of the 
pair of us? Just that we had gone out by the back 

gate. And what does she mind now? A fine, canty, 
nieridly, cracky man, that suffered with the stomach, 
poor body! and was real ta’en up about the good- 
brother. O man, David, try and learn to have some 
kind of intelligence!” 

“T’ll try, Alan,” said I. 

“And now for him of the red head,” says he; “was 
he gaun fast or slow?” 


112 DAVID BALFOUR 


“Betwixt and between,” said I. 

“No kind of a hurry about the man?” he asked. 

“Never a sign of it,” said I. 

“Nhm!” said Alan, “Gt looks queer. We saw nothing 
of them this morning on the Whins; he’s passed us by, 
he doesnae seem to be looking, and yet here he is on 
our road! Dod, Davie, I begin to take a notion. I 
think it’s no you they’re seeking, I think it’s me; and 
I think they ken fine where they’re gaun.” 

“They ken?” I asked. 

“T think Andie Scougal’s sold me—him or his mate 
wha kent some part of the affair—or else Charlie’s 
clerk callant, which would be a pity too,” says Alan; 
“and if you askit me for just my inward private con- 
viction, I think there’ll be heads cracked on Gillane 
sands.” 

“Alan,” I cried, “if you’re at all right there’ll be folk 
there and to spare. It’ll be a small service to crack 
heads.” 

“Tt would aye be a satisfaction, though,” says Alan. 
“But bide a bit, bide a bit; I’m thinking—and thanks 
to this bonny westland wind, I believe I’ve still a 
chance of it. It’s this way, Davie. I’m no trysted 
with this man Scougal till the gloaming comes. But,” 
says he, “if I can get a bit of a wind out of the west 
Pil be there long or that,’ he says, “and lie-to for ye 
behind the Isle of Fidra. Now if your gentry kens the 
place, they ken the time forbye. Do ye see me coming, 
Davie? Thanks to Johnnie Cope and other red-coat 
gomerals, I should ken this country like the back of 
my hand; and if ye’re ready for another bit run with 
Alan Breck, we’ll can cast back inshore, and come 
down to the seaside again by Dirleton. If the ship’s’ 
there, we'll try and get on board of her. If she’s no 
there, I’ll just have to get back to my weary haystack. 
But either way of it, I think we will leave your gentry 
whistling on their thumbs.” 

“T believe there’s some chance in it,” said I. “Have 
on with ye, Alan!” 


CHAPTER XIII 
GILLANE SANDS 


DID not profit by Alan’s pilotage as he had done 

by his marchings under General Cope; for I can 
scarce tell what way we went. It is my excuse that 
we travelled exceeding fast. Some part we ran, some 
trotted, and the rest walked at a vengeance of a pace. 
Twice, while we were at top speed, we ran against 
ecountry-iclk; but though we plumped into the first 
from round a corner, Alan was as ready as a loaded 
musket. 

“Hae ye seen my horse?” he gasped. 

“Na, man, I haenae seen nae horse the day,” replied 
the countryman. 

And Alan spared the time to explain to him that 
we were travelling “ride and tie’; that our charger 
had escaped, and it was feared he had gone home to 
Linton. Not only that, but he expended some breath 
(of which he had not very much left) to curse his 
own misfortune and my stupidity which was said to 
be its cause. 

“Them that cannae tell the truth,” he observed to 
myself as we went on again, “should be aye mindfu’ 
to leave an honest, handy lee behind them. If folk 
dinnae ken what ye’re doing, Davie, they’re terrible 
taken up with it; but if they think they ken, they care 
nae mair for it than what I do for pease porridge.” 

As we had first made inland, so our road came in 
the end to lie very near due north; the old Kirk of 
Aberlady for a landmark on the left: on the right, the 
top of the Berwick Law; and it was thus we struck the 
shore again, not far from Dirleton. From North 

113 . 


114 DAVID BALFOUR 


Berwick west to Gillane Ness there runs a string of 
four small islets, Craiglieth, the Lamb, Fidra, and Eye- 
brough, notable by their diversity of size and shape. 
Fidra is the most particular, being a strange grey islet 
of two humps, made the more conspicuous by a piece 
of ruin; and I mind that (as we drew closer to it) by 
some door or window of these ruins the sea peeped 
through like a man’s eye. Under the lee of Fidra there 
is a good anchorage in westerly winds, and there, from 
a far way off, we could see the Thistle riding. 

The shore in face of these islets is altogether waste. 
Here is no dwelling of man, and scarce any passage, 
or at most of vagabond children running at their play. 
Gillane is a small place on the far side of the Ness, 
the folk of Dirleton go to their business in the inland 
fields, and those of North Berwick straight to the sea- 
fishing from their haven; so that few parts of the 
coast are lonelier. But I mind, as we crawled upon our 
bellies into that multiplicity of heights and hollows, 
keeping a bright eye upon all sides, and our hearts 
hammering at our ribs, there was such a shining of 
the sun and the sea, such a stir of the wind in the 
bent grass, and such a bustle of down-pooping rabbits 
and up-flying gulls, that the desert seemed to me like 
a place alive. No doubt it was in all ways well chosen 
for a secret embarcation, if the secret had been 
kept; and even now that it was out, and the place 
watched, we were able to creep unperceived to the 
front of the sandhills, where they look down imme- 
diately on the beach and sea. 

But here Alan came to a full stop. 

“Davie,” said he, “this is a kittle passage! As 
long as we lie here we’re safe; but I’m nane sae muckle 
nearer to my ship or the coast of France. And as soon 
as we stand up and signal the brig, it’s another matter. 
For where will your gentry be, think ye?” 

“Maybe they’re no come yet,” said I. “And even 
if they are, there’s one clear matter in our favour. 
They’ll be all arranged to take us, that’s true. But 


GILLANE SANDS 115 


they’ll have arranged for our coming from the east 
and here we are upon their west.” 

“Ay,” says Alan, “I wish we were in some force, 
and this was a battle, we would have bonnily out- 
manceuvred them! But it isnae, David; and the way 
it is, is a wee thing less inspiring to Alan Breck. I 
swither, Davie.” 

“Time flies, Alan,” said I. 

“T ken that,” said Alan. “TI ken naething else, as 
the French folk say. But this is a dreidful case of 
heids or tails. O! if I could but ken where your 
gentry were!” 

“Alan,” said I, “this is no like you. It’s got to be 
now or never.” 


“This is no me, quo’ he,” 


sang Alan, with a queer face betwixt shame and 
drollery, 


“Neither you nor me, quo’ he, neither you nor me, 
Wow, na, Johnnie man! neither you nor me.” 


And then of a sudden he stood straight up where he 
was, and with a handkerchief flying in his right hand, 
marched down upon the beach. I stood up myself, but 
lingered behind him, scanning the sandhills to the east. 
His appearance was at first unremarked: Scougal not 
expecting him so early, and my gentry watching on the 
other side. Then they awoke on board the Thistle, and 
it seemed they had all in readiness, for there was scarce 
a second’s bustle on the deck before we saw a skiff put 
round her stern and begin to pull lively for the coast. 
Almost at the same moment of time, and perhaps half 
a mile away towards Gillane Ness, the figure of a 
man appeared for a blink upon a sandhill, waving 
with his arms; and though he was gone again in the 
same flash, the gulls in that part continued a little 
longer to fly wild. 


116 DAVID BALFOUR 


Alan had not seen this, looking straight to seaward 
at the ship and skiff. 

“Tt maun be as it will!” said he, when I had told 
him. ‘Weel may yon boatie row, or my craig’ll have 
to thole a raxing.”’ 

That part of the beach was long and flat, and excel- 
lent walking when the tide was down; a little cressy 
burn flowed over it in one place to the sea; and the 
sandhills ran along the head of it like the rampart of 
a town. No eye of ours could spy what was passing 
behind there in the bents, no hurry of ours could mend 
the speed of the boat’s coming: time stood still with us 
through that uncanny period of waiting. 

“There is one thing I would like to ken,” says 
Alan. “I would like fine to ken these gentry’s orders. 
We're worth four hunner pound the pair of us: how 
if they took the guns to us, Davie? They would get 
a bonny shot from the top of that lang sandy bauk.” 

“Morally impossible,” said I. ‘The point is that 
they can have no guns. This thing has been gone about 
too secret; pistols they may have, but never guns.” 

“T believe ye’ll be in the right,” says Alan. “For 
all which I am wearying a good deal for yon boat.” 

ane he snapped his fingers and whistled to it lke 
a dog. 

It was now perhaps a third of the way in, and we 
ourselves already hard on the margin of the sea, so 
that the soft sand rose over my shoes. There was no 
more to do whatever but to wait, to look as much as 
we were able at the creeping nearer of the boat, and 
as little as we could manage at the long impenetrable 
front of the sandhills, over which the gulls twinkled 
ang behind which our enemies were doubtless marshal- 
ing. 

“This is a fine, bright, caller place to get shot in,” 
says Alan, suddenly; “and, man, I wish that I had 
your courage!” 

“Alan!” I cried, “what kind of talk is this of it? 
You're just made of courage; it’s the character of the 


GILLANE SANDS 117 


man, as I could prove myself if there was nobody else.” 

“And you would be the more mistaken,” said he. 
“What makes the differ with me is just. my great 
penetration and knowledge of affairs. But for auld, 
cauld, dour, deidly courage, I am not fit to hold a 
candle to yourself, Look at us two here upon the 
sands. Here am I, fair hotching to be off; here’s you 
(for all that I ken) in two minds of it whether you'll 
no stop. Do you think that I could do that, or would? 
No me! Firstly, because I havenae got the courage 
and wouldnae daur; and secondly, because I am a 
Hoge ot so much penetration and would see ye damned 

rst. 

“It’s there ye’re coming, is it?” I cried. “Ah, man 
Alan, you can wile your old wives, but you never can 
wile me.’ 

Remembrance of my temptation in the wood made 
me strong as iron. 

“T have a tryst to keep,” I enticed “T am trysted 
with your cousin Charlie; I have passed my word.” 

“Braw trysts that you'll can keep,” said Alan. 
“Ye’ll just mistryst aince and for a’ with the gentry in 
the bents. And what for?” he went on with an exe 
treme threatening gravity. “Just tell me that, my 
mannie! Are ye to be speerited away like Lady 
Grange? Are they to drive a dirk in your inside and 
bury ye in the bents? Or is it to be the other way, 
and are they to bring ye in with James? Are they 
folk to be trustit? Would ye stick your head in the 
mouth of Sim Fraser and the ither Whigs?” he added 
with extraordinary bitterness. 

“Alan,” cried I, “they’re all rogues and lars, and 
I’m with ye there. The more reason there should be 
one decent man in such a land of thieves! My word 
is passed, and I’ll stick to it. I said long syne to your 
kinswoman that I would stumble at no risk. Do ye 
mind of that?—the night Red Colin fell, it was. No 
more I will, then. Here I stop. Prestongrange 


118 DAVID BALFOUR 


promised me my life; if he’s to be mansworn, here I'll 
have to die.” 

“Aweel, aweel,” said Alan. 

All this time we had seen or heard no more of our 
pursuers. In truth we had caught them unawares; 
their whole party (as I was to learn afterwards) had 
not yet reached the scene; what there was of them 
was spread among the bents towards Gillane. It was 
quite an affair to call them in and bring them over, and 
the boat was making speed. They were besides but 
cowardly fellows: a mere leash of Highland cattle- 
thieves, of several clans, no gentleman there to be the 
captain: and the more they looked at Alan and me 
upon the beach, the less (I must suppose) they liked 
the looks of us. 

Whoever had betrayed Alan it was not the captain: 
he was in the skiff himself, steering and stirring up his 
oarsmen, like a man with his heart in his employ. Al- 
ready he was near in, and the boat scouring—already 
Alan’s face had flamed crimson with the excitement 
of his deliverance, when our friends in the bents, either 
in despair to see their prey escape them or with some 
hope of scaring Andie, raised suddenly a shrill ery of 
several voices. 

This sound, arising from what appeared to be a quite 
deserted coast, was really very daunting, and the men 
in the boat held water instantly. 

“What’s this of it?” sings out the captain, for he 
was come within an easy hail. 

“Freens 0’ mine,” says Alan, and began immediately 
to wade forth in the shallow water towards the boat. 
“Davie,” he said, pausing, “Davie, are ye no coming? 
I am swier to leave ye.” 

“Not a hair of me,” said I. 

He stood part of a second where he was to his knees 
in the salt water, hesitating. 

“He that will to Cupar, maun to Cupar,” said he, 
and swashing in deeper than his waist, was hauled into 
the skiff, which was immediately directed for the ship. 


GILLANE SANDS 119 


I stood where he had left me, with my hands behind 
my back; Alan sat with his head turned watching me; 
and the boat drew smoothly away. Of a sudden I 
came the nearest hand to shedding tears, and seemed 
to myself the most deserted, solitary lad in Scotland. 
With that I turned my back upon the sea and faced 
the sandhills. There was no sight or sound of man; the 
_ sun shone on the wet sand and the dry, the wind blew 
in the bents, the gulls made a dreary piping. As I 
passed higher up the beach, the sand-lice were hopping 
nimbly about the stranded tangles. The devil any 
other sight or sound in that unchancy place. And yet 
I knew there were folk there, observing me, upon some 
secret purpose. They were no soldiers, or they would 
have fallen on and taken us ere now; doubtless they 
were some common rogues hired for my undoing, per- 
haps to kidnap, perhaps to murder me outright. From 
the position of those engaged, the first was the more 
likely; from what I knew of their character and 
ardency in this business, I thought the second very 
possible; and the blood ran cold about my heart. 

I had a mad idea to loosen my sword in the scab- 
bard; for though I was very unfit to stand up like a 
gentleman blade to blade, I thought I could do some 
scathe in a random combat. But I perceived in time 
the folly of resistance. This was no doubt the joint 

“expedient” on which Prestongrange and Fraser were 
agreed. The first, I was very sure, had done something 
to secure my life; the second was pretty likely to have 
slipped in some contrary hints into the ears of Neil 
and his companions; and if I were to show bare steel 
I might play straight into the hands of my worst enemy 
and seal my own doom. 

These thoughts brought me to the head of the 
beach. I cast a look behind, the boat was nearing 
the brig, and Alan flew his handkerchief for a fare- 
well, which I replied to with the waving of my hand. 
But ‘Alan himself was shrunk to a small thing in my 
view, alongside of this pass that lay in front of me, 


120 DAVID BALFOUR 


I set my hat hard on my head, clenched my teeth, 
and went right before me up the face of the sands 
wreath. It made a hard climb, being steep, and the 
sand like water underfoot. But I caught hold at last 
by the long bent-grass on the brae-top, and pulled 
myself to a good footing. The same moment men 
stirred and stood up here and there, six or seven of 
them, ragged-like knaves, each with a dagger in his 
hand. The fair truth is, I shut my eyes and prayed. 
When I opened them, the rogues were crept the least 
thing nearer without speech or hurry. Every eye was 
upon mine, which struck me with a strange sensation 
of their brightness, and of the fear with which they 
continued to approach me. I held out my hands 
empty: whereupon one asked, with a strong Highland 
brogue, if I surrendered. 

“Under protest,” said I, “if ye ken what that means, 
which I misdoubt.” 

At that word, they came all ; in upon me like a flight 
of birds upon a carrion, seized me, took my sword, 
and all the money from my pockets, bound me hand 
and foot with some strong line, and cast me on a 
tussock of bent. ‘There they sat about their captive 
in a part of a circle and gazed upon him silently like 
something dangerous, perhaps a lion or a tiger on the 
spring. Presently this attention was relaxed. They 
drew nearer together, fell to speech in the Gaelic, and 
very cynically divided my property before my eyes. 
It was my diversion in this time that I could watch 
from my place the progress of my friend’s escape. I 
saw the boat come to the brig and be hoisted in, the 
sails fill, and the ship pass out seaward behind the 
isles and by North Berwick. 

In the course of two hours or so, more and more 
ragged Highlandmen kept collecting, Neil among the 
first, until the party must have numbered near a score. 
With each new arrival there was a fresh bout of talk, 
that sounded like complaints and explanations; but I 
observed one thing, none of those that came late had 


GILLANE SANDS 121 


any share in the division of my spoils, The last dis- 
cussion was very violent and eager, so that once I 
thought they would have quarrelled; on the heels of 
which their company parted, the bulk of them returning 
westward in a troop, and only three, Neil and two 
others, remaining sentries on the prisoner. 

“Y could name one who would be very ill pleased 
with your day’s work, Neil Duncanson,” said I, when 
the rest had moved away. 

He assured me in answer I should be tenderly used, 
for he knew he was “acquent wi’ the leddy.” 

This was all our talk, nor did any other son of man 
appear upon that portion of the coast until the sun 
had gone down among the Highland mountains, and 
the gloaming was beginning to grow dark. At which 
hour I was aware of a long, lean, bony-like Lothian 
man of a very swarthy countenance, that came towards 
us among the bents on a farm horse. 

“Lads,” eried he, “hae ye a paper like this?” and 
held up one in his hand. Neil produced a second 
which the new-comer studied through a pair of horn 
spectacles, and saying all was right and we were the 
folk he was seeking, immediately dismounted. I was 
then set in his place, my feet tied under the horse’s 
belly, and we set forth under the guidance of the Low- 
lander. His path must have been very well chosen, 
for we met but one pair—a pair of lovers—the whole 
way, and these, perhaps taking us to be free-traders, 
fled on our approach. We were at one time close at 
the foot of Berwick Law on the south side; at another, 
as we passed over some open hills, I spied the lights 
of a clachan and the old tower of a church among 
some trees not far off, but too far to cry for help, if 
I had dreamed of it. At last we came again within 
sound of the sea. There was moonlight, though not 
much; and by this I could see the three huge towers 
and broken battlements of Tantallon, that old chief 
place of the Red Douglases. The horse was picketed 
in the bottom of the ditch to graze, and I was led 


122 DAVID BALFOUR 


within, and forth into the court, and thence into a 
tumble-down stone hall. Here my conductors built 
a brisk fire in the midst of the pavement, for there 
was a chill in the night. My hands were loosed, I 
was set by the wall in the inner end, and (the Low- 
lander having produced provisions) I was given oat- 
meal bread and a pitcher of French brandy. This 
done, I was left once more alone with my three High- 
landmen. They sat close by the fire drinking and 
talking; the wind blew in by the breaches, cast about 
the smoke and flames, and sang in the tops of the 
towers; I could hear the sea under the cliffs, and my 
mind being reassured as to my life, and my body and 
spirits wearied with the day’s employment, I turned 
upon one side and slumbered. 

I had no means of guessing at what hour I was 
wakened, only the moon was down and the fire low. 
My feet were now loosed, and I was earried through 
the ruins and down the cliff-side by a precipitous path 
to where I found a fisher’s boat in a haven of the 
rocks. This I was had on board of, and we began 
to put forth from the shore in a fine starlight. 


CHAPTER XIV 
THR BASS 


HAD no thought where they were taking me; only 

looked here and there for the appearance of a ship; 
and there ran the while in my head a word of Ran- 
some’s—the twenty-pounders. If I were to be exposed 
a second time to that same former danger of the plan- 
tations, I judged it must turn ill with me; there was 
no second Alan, and no second shipwreck and spare 
yard to be expected now; and I saw myself hoe to- 
bacco under the whip’s lash. The thought chilled me; 
the air was sharp upon the water, the stretchers of the 
boat drenched with a cold dew; and I shivered in my 
place beside the steersman. This was the dark man 
whom I have called hitherto the Lowlander; his name 
was Dale, ordinarily called Black Andie. Feeling the 
thrill of my shiver, he very kindly handed me a rough 
jacket full of fish-scales, with which I was glad to 
cover myself. 

“T thank you for this kindness,” said I, “and will 
make so free as to repay it with a warning. You take 
a high responsibility in this affair. You are not like 
these ignorant, barbarous Highlanders, but know what 
the law is and the risks of those that break it.” 

“T am no just exactly ye would ca’ an extremist for 
the law,” says he, “at the best of times; but in this 
business I act with a good warranty.” 

“What are you going to do with me?” I asked. 

“Nae harm,” said he, “nae harm ava’. Ye’ll hae 
strong freens, I’m thinking. Ye’ll be richt eneuch yet.” 

There began to fall a greyness on the face of the 
sea; little dabs of pink and red, like coals of slow fire, 

123 


124 DAVID BALFOUR 


came in the east; and at the same time the geese awak- 
ened, and began crying about the top of the Bass. It 
is just the one crag of rock, as everybody knows, but 
great enough to carve a city from. The sea was ex- 
tremely little, but there went a hollow plowter round 
the base of it. With the growing of the dawn I could 
see it clearer and clearer; the straight crags painted 
with sea-birds’ droppings like a morning frost, the 
sloping top of it green with grass, the clan of white’ 
geese that cried about the sides, and the black, broken 
buildings of the prison sitting close on the sea’s edge. 

At the sight the truth came in upon me in a elap. 

“It’s there youre taking me!” I cried. 

“Just to the Bass, mannie,” said he: “Whaur the 
auld sants were afore ye, and I misdoubt if ye have 
come so fairly by your preeson.” 

“But none dwells there now,” I cried; “the place 
is long a ruin.” 

“Tt’ll be the mair pleisand a change for the solan 
geese, then,” quoth Andie drily. 

The day coming slowly brighter I observed on the 
bilge, among the big stones with which fisherfolk bal- 
last their boats, several kegs and baskets, and a pro- 
vision of fuel. All these were discharged upon the 
crag. Andie, myself, and my three Highlanders (I 
call them mine, although it was the other way about), 
landed along with them. The sun was not yet up when 
the boat moved away again, the noise of the oars on 
_ the thole-pins echoing from the cliffs, and left us in 
our singular reclusion. 

Andie Dale was the Prefect (as I would jocularly 
call him) of the Bass, being at once the shepherd and 
the gamekeeper of that small and rich estate. He had 
to mind the dozen or so of sheep that fed and fat- 
tened on the grass of the sloping part of it, like beasts 
grazing the roof of a cathedral. He had charge besides 
of the solan geese that roosted in the crags; and from 
these an extraordinary income is derived. The young 
are dainty eating, as much as two shillings a-piece 


THE BASS 125 


being a common price, and paid willingly by epicures; 
even the grown birds are valuable for their oil and 
feathers; and a part of the minister’s stipend of North 
Berwick is paid to this day in solan geese, which 
makes it (in some folks’ eyes) a parish to be coveted. 
To perform these several businesses, as well as to 
protect the geese from poachers, Andie had frequent 
occasion to sleep and pass days together on the crag; 
and we found the man at home there like a farmer 
in his steading. Bidding us all shoulder some of the 
packages, a matter in which I made haste to bear a 
hand, he led us in by a locked gate, which was the 
only admission to the island, and through the ruins 
of the fortress, to the governor’s house. There we saw, 
by the ashes in the chimney and a standing bed-place 
in one corner, that he made his usual occupation. 

This bed he now offered me to use, saying he sup- 
posed I would set up to be gentry. 

“My gentrice has nothing*to do with where I lie,” 
said I. “I bless God I have lain hard ere now, and can 
do the same again with thankfulness. While I am 
here, Mr. Andie, if that be your name, I will do my 
part and take my place beside the rest of you; and I 
ask you on the other hand to spare me your mockery, 
which I own I like ill.” 

He grumbled a little at this speech, but seemed upon 
reflection to approve it. Indeed, he was a long-headed, 
sensible man, and a good Whig and Presbyterian; read 
daily in a pocket Bible, and was both able and eager 
to converse seriously on religion, leaning more than 
a little towards the Cameronian extremes. His morals 
were of a more doubiful colour. I found be was deep 
in the free trade, and used the ruins of Tantallon for 
a magazine of smuggled merchandise. As for a gauger, 
I do not believe he valued the life of one at half-a- 
farthing. But that part of the coast of Lothian is to 
this day as wild a place, and the commons there as 
rough a crew, as any in Scotland. 

One incident of my imprisonment is made memorable 


126 DAVID BALFOUR 


by a consequence it had long after. There was a 
warship at this time stationed in the Firth, the Sea- 
horse, Captain Palliser. It chanced she was cruising 
in the month of September, plying between Fife and 
Lothian, and sounding for sunk dangers. Early one 
fine morning she was seen about two miles to east of 
us, where she lowered a boat, and seemed to examine 
the Wildfire Rocks and Satan’s Bush, famous dangers 
of that coast. And presently after having got her boat 
again, she came before the wind and was headed di- 
rectly for the Bass. This was very troublesome to 
Andie and the Highlanders; the whole business of my 
sequestration was designed for privacy, and here, with 
a navy captain perhaps blundering ashore, it looked to 
become public enough, if it were nothing worse. I 
was in a minority of one, I am no Alan to fall upon 
so many, and I was far from sure that a warship was 
the least likely to improve my condition. All which 
considered, I gave Andie my parole of good behaviour 
and obedience, and was had briskly to the summit of 
the rock, where we all lay down, at the clifi’s edge, 
in different places of observation and concealment. 
The Seahorse came straight on till I thought she would 
have struck, and we (looking giddily down) could sce 
the ship’s company at their quarters and hear the 
leadsman singing at the lead. Then she suddenly wore 
and let fly a volley of I know not how many great 
guns. The rock was shaken with the thunder of the 
sound, the smoke flowed over our heads, and the geese 
rose In number beyond computatioh or belief. To hear 
their screaming and to see the twinkling of their wings, 
made a most inimitable curiosity; and I suppose it 
was after this somewhat childish pleasure that Cap- 
tain Palliser had come so near the Bass. He was to 
pay dear for it in time. During his approach I had 
the opportunity to make a remark upon the rigging of 
that ship by which I ever after knew it miles away; 
and this was a means (under Providence) of my avert- 
ing from a friend a great calamity, and inflicting on 


THE BASS 127 


Captain Palliser himself a sensible disappointment. 

All the time of my stay on the rock we lived well. 
We had small ale and brandy, and oatmeal of which we 
made our porridge night and morning. At times a 
boat came from the Castleton and brought us a quarter 
of mutton, for the sheep upon the rock we must not 
touch, these being specially fed to market. The geese 
were unfortunately out of season, and we let them be. 
We fished ourselves, and yet more often made the 
geese to fish for us: observing one when he had made 
a capture and scaring him from his prey ere he had 
swallowed it. 

The strange nature of this place, and the curiosities 
with which it abounded, held me busy and amused. 
Escape being impossible, I was allowed my entire lib- 
erty, and continually explored the surface of the isle 
wherever it might support the foot of man. The old 
garden of the prison was still to be observed with 
flowers and pot-herbs running wild, and some ripe 
cherries on a bush. A little lower stood a chapel or 
a hermit’s cell; who built or dwelt in it, none may 
know, and the thought of its age made a ground of 
many meditations. The prison too, where I now 
bivouacked with Highland cattle-thieves, was a place 
full of history, both human and divine. I thought it 
strange so many saints and martyrs should have gone 
by there so recently, and left not so much as a leaf 
out of their Bibles, or a name carved upon the wall, 
while the rough soldier lads that mounted guard upon 
the battlements had filled the neighbourhood with their 
mementoes—broken tobacco-pipes for the most part, 
and that in a surprising plenty, but also metal buttons 
from their coats. There were times when I thought I 
could have heard the pious sound of psalms out of the 
martyrs’ dungeons, and seen the soldiers tramp the 
ramparts with their glinting pipes, and the dawn rising 
behind them out of the North Sea. 

No doubt it was a good deal Andie and his 
tales that put these fancies in my head. He was 


128 DAVID BALFOUR 


extraordinary well acquainted with the story of the 
rock in all particulars, down to the names of private 
soldiers, his father having served there in that same 
capacity. He was gifted besides with a natural genius 
for narration, so that the people seemed to speak and 
the things to be done before your face. This gift of his 
and my assiduity to listen brought us the more close 
together. I could not honestly deny but what I liked 
him: I soon saw that he liked me; and indeed, from 
the first I had set myself out to capture his good will. 
An odd circumstance (to be told presently) effected 
this beyond my expectation; but even in early days we 
made a friendly pair to be a prisoner and his gaoler. 

I should trifle with my conscience if I pretended my 
stay upon the Bass was wholly disagreeable. It seemed 
to me a safe place, as though I was escaped there out 
of my troubles. No harm was to be offered me; a 
material impossibility, rock and the deep sea, pre- 
vented me from fresh attempts; I felt I had my life 
safe and my honour safe, and there were times when 
I allowed myself to gloat on them like stolen waters. 
At other times my thoughts were very different. I 
recalled how strong I had expressed myself both to 
Rankeillor and to Stewart; I reflected that my cap- . 
tivity upon the Bass, in view of a great part of the 
coasts of Fife and Lothian, was a thing I should be 
thought more likely to have invented than endured; 
and in the eyes of these two gentlemen, at least, I must 
pass for a boaster and a coward. Now I would take 
this lightly enough; tell myself that so long as I stood 
well with Catriona Drummond, the opinion of the rest 
of man was but moonshine and spilled water; and 
thence pass off into those meditations of a lover which 
are so delightful to himself and must always appear so 
surprisingly idle to a reader. But anon the fear would 
take me otherwise; I would be shaken with a perfect 
panic of self-esteem, and these supposed hard judg- 
ments appear an injustice impossible to be supported. 
With that another train of thought would be presented, 


THE BASS 129 


and I had scarce begun to be concerned about men’s 
judgments of myself, than I was haunted with the re- 
membrance of James Stewart in his dungeon and the 
lamentations of his wife. Then, indeed, passion began 
to work in me; I could not forgive myself to sit there 
idle; it seemed (if I were a man at all) that I could 
fly or swim out of my place of safety; and it was in 
such humours and to amuse my self-reproaches that I 
would set the more particularly to win the good side 
of Andie Dale. 

At last, when we two were alone on the summit of 
the rock on a bright morning, I put in some hint about 
a bribe. He looked at me, cast back his head, and 
laughed out loud. 

“Ay, you’re funny, Mr. Dale,” said I, “but perhaps 
if you'll glance an eye upon that paper you may change 
your note.” 

The stupid Highlanders had taken from me at the 
time of my seizure nothing but hard money, and the 
paper I now showed Andie was an acknowledgment 
from the British Linen Company for a considerable 
sum. 

He read it. “Troth, and ye’re nane sae ill aff,” 
said he. 

“T thought that would maybe vary your opinions,” 
said I. 

“Hout!” said he. “It shows me ye can bribe; but 
I’m no to be bribit.” 

“We'll see about that yet a while,” says I. “And 
first, I'll show you that I know what I am talking. 
You have orders to detain me here till after Thursday, 
2ist September.” : 

“Ye're no a’tegether wrong either,” says Andie. 
“T’m to let ye gang, bar orders contrair, on Saturday, 
the 23rd.” | 

I could not but feel there was something extremely 
insidious in this arrangement. That I was to reappear 
precisely in time to be too late would cast the more 


130 DAVID BALFOUR 


discredit on my tale, if I were minded to tell one; and 
this screwed me to fighting point. 

“Now then, Andie, you that kens the world, listen 
to me, and think while ye listen,” said I. “I know 
there are great folks in the business, and I make no 
doubt you have their names to go upon. I have seen 
some of them myself since this affair began, and said 
my say into their faces too. But what kind of a 
crime would this be that I had committed? or what 
kind of a process is this that I am fallen under? To 
be apprehended by some ragged John-Hielandmen on 
August 30th, carried to a rickle of old stones that is 
now neither fort nor gaol (whatever it once was) but 
just the gamekeeper’s lodge of the Bass Rock, and set 
free again, September 23rd, as secretly as I was first 
arrested—does that sound like law to you? or does 
it sound like justice? or does it not sound honestly 
like a piece of some low dirty intrigue, of which the 
very folk that meddle with it are ashamed?” 

“I cannae gainsay ye, Shaws. It looks unco under- 
hand,” says Andie. “And werenae the folk guid sound 
Whigs and true-blue Presbyterians I would hae seen 
them ayont Jordan and Jeroozlem or I would have 
set hand to it.” 

“The Master of Lovat’ll be a braw Whig,” says I, 
“and a grand Presbyterian.” 

“IT. ken naething by him,” said he. “I hae nae trok- 
ings wi’ Lovats.” 

“No, it’ll be Prestongrange that you'll be dealing 
with,” said I. 

“Ah, but I'll no tell ye that,” said Andie. 

“Little need when I ken,” was my retort. 

“There’s just the ae thing ye can be fairly sure of, 
Shaws,” says Andie. “And that is that (try as ye 
please) I’m no dealing wi’ yoursel’; nor yet [ amnae 
goin’ to,” he added. 

“Well, Andie, I see I'll have to be speak out plain 
with you,” I replied. And I told him so much as I 
thought needful of the facts. 


THE BASS 131 


He heard me out with serious interest, and when I 
had done, seemed to consider a little with himself. 

“Shaws,” said he at last, “I’ll deal with the naked 
hand. It’s a queer tale, and no very creditable, the 
way you tell it; and I’m far frae minting that is 
other than the way that ye believe it. As for yoursel’, 
ye seem to me rather a dacent-like young man. But 
me, that’s aulder and mair judeecious, see perhaps a 
wee bit further forrit in the job than what ye can dae. 
And here is the maitter clear and plain to ye. There'll 
be nae skaith to yoursel’ if I keep ye here; far frae 
that, I think ye’ll be a hantle better by it. There’ll 
be nae skaith to the kintry—just ae mair Hielantman 
hangit—Gude kens, a guid riddance! On the ither 
hand, it would be considerable skaith to me if I would 
let you free. Sae, speakin’ as a guid Whig, an honest 
freen’ to you, and an anxious freen’ to my ainsel’, the 
plain fact is that I think ye’ll just have to bide here 
wi’ Andie an’ the solans.” 

“Andie,” said I, laying my hand upon his knee, “this 
Hielantman’s innocent.” 

“Ay, it’s a peety about that,” said he. “But ye see, 
in this warld, the way God made it, we cannae just 
get a’thing that we want.” 


CHAPTER XV 
BLACK ANDIE’S TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK 


HAVE yet said little of the Highlanders. They 

were all three of the followers of James More, 
which bound the accusation very tight about their 
master’s neck. All understood a word or two of Eng- 
lish; but Neil was the only one who judged he had 
enough of it for general converse, in which (when once 
he got embarked) his company was often tempted to 
the contrary opinion. ‘They were tractable, simple 
creatures; showed much more courtesy than might have 
been expected from their raggedness and their uncouth 
appearance, and fell spontaneously to be like three 
servants for Andie and myself. 

Dwelling in that isolated place, in the old falling 
ruins of a prison, and among endless strange sounds of 
the sea and the sea-birds, I thought I perceived in 
them early the effects of superstitious fear. When 
there was nothing doing they would either le and sleep, 
for which their appetite appeared insatiable, or Neil 
would entertain the others with stories which seemed 
always of a terrifying strain. If neither of these de- 
lights were within reach—if perhaps two were sleeping 
and the third could find no means to follow their 
example—I would see him sit and listen and look about 
him in a progression of uneasiness, starting, his face 
blenching, his hands clutched, a man strung like a 
bow. The nature of these fears I had never an occa- 
sion to find out, but the sight of them was catching, 
and the nature of the place that we were in favourable 
to alarms. I can find no word for it in the English, 
but Andie had an expression for it in the Scots from 
which he never varied. 

132 


TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK 133 


“Ay,” he would say, “7t’s an unco place, the Bass.” 

It is so I always think of it. It was an unco place 
by night, unco by day; and these were unco sounds, 
of the calling of the solans, and the plash of the sea 
and the rock echoes, that hung continually in our ears. 
It was chiefly so in moderate weather. When the 
waves were anyway great they roared about the rock 
like thunder and the drums of armies, dreadful but 
merry to hear; and it was in the calm days that a man 
could daunt himself with listening—not a Highland- 
man only, as I several times experimented on myself, 
so many still, hollow noises haunted and reverberated 
in the porches of the rock. 

This brings me to a story I heard, and a scene I 
took part in, which quite changed our terms of living, 
and had a great effect on my departure. It chanced 
one night I fell in a muse beside the fire and (that 
little air of Alan’s coming back to my memory) began 
to whistle. A hand was laid upon my arm, and the 
voice of Neil bade me to stop, for it was not | ‘canny 
musics.’ 

“Not canny?” I asked. ‘“How can that be?” 

“Na,” said he; “it will be made by a bogle and her 
wanting ta heid upon his body.’” 

“Well,” said I, ‘there can be no bogles here, Neil; 
for it’s not likely they would fash themselves. to 
frighten solan geese.” 

“Ay?” says Andie, “is that what ye think of it? 
But Ulli can tell ye there’s been waur nar bogles here.” 

“What’s waur than bogles, Andie?” said I. 

“Warlocks,” said he. “Or a warlock at the least of 
it. And that’s a queer tale, too,” he added. “And 
if ye would like, I'll tell it ye.” 

To be sure we were all of the one mind, and even the 

*A learned folklorist of my acquaintance hereby identifies 
Alan’s air. It has been printed (it seems) in Campbell’s Tales 
of the West Highlands, Vol. II, p. 91. Upon examination it 
would really seem as if Miss Grant’s unrhymed doggerel (see 


Chapter V) would fit with a little humouring to the notes 
in question. 


134 DAVID BALFOUR 


Highlander that had the least English of the three set 
himself to listen with all his might. 


Tue Tae or Top LAPRAIK 


My faither, Tam Dale, peace to his banes, was a wild, 
sploring lad in his young days, wi’ little wisdom and 
less grace. He was fond of a lass and fond of a glass, 
and fond of a ran-dan; but I could never hear tell 
that he was muckle use for honest employment. Frae 
ae thing to anither, he listed at last for a sodger and 
was in the garrison of this fort, which was the first 
way that ony of the Dales cam to set foot upon the 
Bass. Sorrow upon that service! ‘The governor 
brewed his ain ale; it seems it was the warst conceiv- 
able. The rock was proveesioned frae the shore with 
vivers, the thing was ill-guided, and there were whiles 
when they biit to fish and shoot solans for their diet. 
To crown a’, thir was the Days of the Persecution. 
The perishin’ cauld chalmers were a’ occupeed wi’ 
sants and martyrs, the saut of the yearth, of which it 
wasnae worthy. And though Tam Dale carried a fire- 
lock there, a single sodger, and liked a lass and a 
glass, as I was sayin’, the mind of the man was mair 
just than set with his. position. He had glints of the 
glory of the kirk; there were whiles when his dander 
rase to see the Lord’s sants misguided, and shame 
covered him that he should be haulding a can’le (or 
carrying a firelock) in so black a business. ‘There 
were nights of it,when he was here on sentry, the 
place a’ wheesht, the frosts 0’ winter maybe riving in 
the wa’s, and he would hear ane o’ the prisoners strike 
up a psalm, and the rest join in, and the blessed 
sounds rising from the different chalmers—or dungeons, 
I would raither say—so that this auld craig in the sea 
was like a pairt of Heev’n. Black shame was on his 
saul; his sins hove up before him muckle as the Bass, 
and above a’, that chief sin, that he should have a 
hand in hagging and hashing at Christ’s Kirk. But 


TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK 135 


the truth is that he resisted the spirit. Day cam, there 
were the rousing compainions, and his guid resolves 
depairtit. 

In thir days, dwalled upon the Bass a man of God, 
Peden the Prophet was his name. Ye’ll have heard 
tell of Prophet Peden. There was never the wale of 
him sinsyne, and it’s a question wi’ mony if there ever 
was his like afore. He was wild ’s a peat-hag, fearsome 
to look at, fearsome to hear, his face like the day of 
judgment. The voice of him was like a solan’s and 
pepe in folks’ lugs, and the words of him like coals 
of fire. 

Now there was a lass on the rock, and I think she 
had little to do, for it was nae place for dacent 
weemen; but it seems she was bonny, and her and Tam 
Dale were very well agreed. It befell that Peden 
was in the gairden his lane at the praying when Tam 
and the lass cam by; and what should the lassie do 
but mock with laughter at the sant’s devotions? He 
rose and lookit at the twa o’ them, and Tam’s knees 
knoitered thegether at the look of him. But whan he 
spak, it was mair in sorrow than in anger. ‘Poor 
thing, poor thing!” says he, and it was the lass he 
lookit at, “I hear you skirl and laugh,” he says, “but 
the Lord has a deid shot prepared for you, and at 
that surprising judgment ye shall skirl but the ae 
time!” Shortly thereafter she was daundering on the 
craigs wi’ twa-three soldiers, and it was a blawy day. 
There cam a gowst of wind, claught her by the coats, 
and awa’ wi’ her bag and baggage. And it was re- 
marked by the sodgers that she gied but the ae skirl. 

Nae doubt this judgment had some weicht upon 
Tam Dale; but it passed again, and him none the better. 
Ae day he was flyting wi’ anither sodger-lad. “Deil 
hae me!” quo’ Tam, for he was a profane swearer. 
And there was Peden glowering at him, gash an’ 
waefu’; Peden wi’ his lang chats an’ luntin’ een, the 
maud happed about his kist, and the hand of him 
held out wi’ the black nails upon the finger-nebs—for 


136 DAVID BALFOUR 


he had nae care of the body. “Fy, fy, poor man!” 
cries he, “the poor fool man! Deil hae me, quo’ he; 
an’ I see the deil at his oxter.” The conviction of 
guilt and grace cam in on Tam like the deep sea; he 
flang doun the pike that was in his hands—“I will nae 
mair lift arms against the cause o’ Christ!” says he, 
and was as gude’s word. There was a sair fyke in 
the beginning, but the governor, seeing him resolved, 
gied him his dischairge, and he went and dwallt and 
merried in North Berwick, and had aye a gude name 
with honest folk frae that day on. : 

It was in the year seeventeen hunner and sax that 
the Bass cam in the hands o’ the Da’rymples, and 
there was twa men soucht the chairge of it. Baith 
were weel qualified, for they had baith been sodgers 
in the garrison, and kent the gate to handle solans, 
and the seasons and values of them. Forbye that they 
were baith—or they baith seemed—earnest professors 
and men of comely conversation. The first of them 
was Just Tam Dale, my faither. The second was ane 
Lapraik, whom the folk ca’d Tod Lapraik maistly, but 
whether for his name or his nature I could never hear 
tell. Weel, Tam gaed to see Lapraik upon this bus- 
iness, and took me, that was a toddlin’ laddie, by the 
hand. Tod had his dwallin’ in the lang loan benorth 
the kirkyaird. It’s a dark uncanny loan, forbye that 
the kirk has aye had an ill name since the days o’ 
James the Saxt and the deevil’s cantrips played therein 
when the Queen was on the seas; and as for Tod’s 
house, it was in the mirkest end, and was little liked 
by some that kenned the best. The door was on the 
sneck that day, and me and my faither gaed straucht 
in. Tod was a wabster to his trade; his loom stood in 
the but. There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a 
man like creish, wi’ a kind of a holy smile that gart 
me scunner. The hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, 
but his een was steeket. We cried to him by his name, 
we skirled in the deid lug of him, we shook him by the 
shouther. Nae mainner o’ service! There he sat on 


TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK 137 


his dowp, an’ cawed the shuttle and smiled like creish. 

“Cod be guid to us,” says Tam Dale, “this is no 
canny!” 

He had jimp said the word, when Tom Lapraik cam 
to himsel’, 

“Ts this you, Tam?” says he. “Haith, man! I’m 
blithe to see ye. I whiles fa’ into a bit dwam like 
this,” he says; “it’s frae the stamach.”’ 

Weel, they began to crack about the Bass and which 
of them twa was to get the warding o’t, and by little 
and little cam to very ill words, and twined in anger. 
I mind weel, that as my faither and me gaed hame 
again, he cam ower and ower the same expression, how 
little he likit Tod Lapraik and his dwams. 

“Dwam!” says he. “I think folk hae brunt far 
dwams like yon.” 

Aweel, my faither got the Bass and Tod had to go 
wantin’, It was remembered sinsyne what way he had 
ta’en the thing. “Tam,” says he, “ye hae gotten the 
better o’ me aince mair, and I hope,” says he, “ye’ll 
find at least a’ that ye expeckit at the Bass.” Which 
have since been thought remarkable expressions. At 
last the time came for Tam Dale to take young solans. 
This was a business he was weel used wi’, he had been 
a craigsman frae a laddie, and trustit nane but himsel’. 
So there was he hingin’ by a line an’ speldering on the 
craig face, whaur it’s hieest and steighest. Fower 
tenty lads were on the tap, hauldin’ the line and 
mindin’ for his signals. But whaur Tam hung there 
was naething but the craig, and the sea belaw, and the 
solans skirling and flying. It was a braw spring morn, 
and Tam whustled as he claught in the young geese. 
Mony’s the time I heard him tell of this experience, 
and aye the swat ran upon the man. 

It chanced, ye see, that Tam keekit up, and he 
was awaur of a muckle solan, and the solan pyking 
at the line. He thocht this by-ordinar and outside the 
creature’s habits. He minded that ropes was unco saft 
things, and the solan’s neb and the Bass Rock unco 


138 DAVID BALFOUR 


hard, and that twa hunner feet were raither mair than 
he would care to fa’. 

“Shoo!” says Tam. ‘Awa’, bird! Shoo, awa’ wi’ 
ye!” says he. 

The solan keekit doun into Tam’s face, and there 
was something unco in the creature’s ee. Just the ae 
keek it gied, and back to the rope. But now it 
wroucht and warstl’t hike a thing dementit. There 
never was the solan made that wroucht as that solan 
wroucht; and it seemed to understand its employ 
brawly, birzing the saft rope between the neb of it and 
a crunkled jag o’ stane. 

There gaed a cauld stend o’ fear into Tam’s heart. 
“This thing is nae bird,” thinks he. His een turnt 
backward in his heid and the day gaed black about 
him. “If I get a dwam here,” he thoucht, “it’s by wi’ 
Tam Dale.” And he signalled for the lads to pu’ him 
up. 
And it seemed the solan understood about signals. 
For nae sooner was the signal made than he let be the 
rope, spried his wings, squawked out loud, took a 
turn flying, and dashed straucht at Tam Dale’s een. 
Tam had a knife, he gart the cauld steel glitter. And 
it seemed the solan understood about knives, for nae 
suner did the steel glint in the sun than he gied the 
ae squawk, but laigher, like a body disappointit, and 
flegged aff about the roundness of the craig, and Tam 
saw him nae mair. And as sune as that thing was 
gane, Tam’s heid drapt upon his shouther, and they 
pu’d him up like a deid corp, dadding on the craig. 

A dram of brandy (which he went never without) 
a him to his mind, or what was left of it. Up 

e sat. 

“Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, 
man—rin!” he cries, “or yon solan’ll have it awa’,” 
says he. 

The fower lads stared at ither, an’ tried to whilly- 
wha him to be quiet. But naething would satisfy Tam 
Dale, till ane o’ them had startit on aheid to stand 


TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK 139 


sentry on the boat. The ithers askit if he was for 
down again. 

“Na,” says he, “and neither you nor me,” says he, 
“and as sune as I can win to stand on my twa feet 
we'll be aff frae this craig o’ Sawtan.” 

Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was ower 
muckle; for before they won to North Berwick Tam 
was in a crying fever. He lay a’ the simmer; and wha 
was sae kind as come speiring for him, but Tod Lap- 
raik! Folk thocht afterwards that ilka time Tod cam 
near the house the fever had worsened. I kenna for 
that; but what I ken the best, that was the end of it. 

It was about this time o’ the year; my grandfaither 
was out at the white fishing; and like a bairn, I biit 
to gang wi’ him. We had a grand take, I mind, and 
the way that the fish lay broucht us near in by the 
Bass, whaur we forgaithered wi’ anither boat that be- 
langed to a man Sandie Fletcher in Castleton. He’s 
no lang deid neither, or ye could speir at himsel’. 
Weel, Sandie hailed. 

“What’s yon on the Bass?” says he. 

“On the Bass?” says grandfaither. 

“Ay,” says Sandie, “on the green side o’t.” 

“Whatten kind of a thing?” says grandfaither. 
“There cannae be naething on the Bass but just the 
sheep.” 

“Tt looks unco like a body,” quo’ Sandie, who was 
nearer in. 

“A body!” says we, and we nane of us likit that. 
For there was nae boat that could have broucht a 
man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung ower my 
faither’s heid at hame in the press bed. 

We keept the twa boats closs for company, and crap 
in nearer hand. Grandfaither had a gless, for he had 
been a sailor, and the captain of a smack, and had 
lost her on the sands of Tay. And when we took 
the gless to it, sure eneuch there was a man. He was 
in a crunkle o’ green brae, a wee below the chaipel, a’ 


140 DAVID BALFOUR 


by his Jee-lane, and lowped and flang and danced like 
a daft quean at a waddin’. 

“It’s Tod,” says grandfaither, and passed the gless 
to Sandie. 

“Ay, it’s him,” says Sandie. 

“Or ane in the likeness o’ him,” says grandfaither. 

‘Sma’ is the differ,” quo’ Sandie. ‘“Deil or warlock, 
ll try the gun at him,” quo’ he, and broucht up a 
fowling-piece that he aye carried, for Sandie was a 
notable famous shot in all that country. 

“Haud your hand, Sandie,” says grandfaither; ‘‘we 
maun see clearer first,’”’ says he, “or this may be a dear 
day’s work to the baith of us.” 

“Hout!” says Sandie, “this is the Lord’s judgments 
surely, and be damned to it!” says he. 

“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” says my grandfaither, 
worthy man! “But have you a mind of the Pro- 
curator Fiscal, that I think ye’ll have forgaithered wi’ 
before,” says he. 

This was ower true, and Sandie was a wee thing set 
ajee. “Aweel, Edie,” says he, “and what would be 
your way of it?” 

“Ou, just this,” says grandfaither. “Let me that has 
the fastest boat gang back to North Berwick, and let 
you bide here and keep an eye on Thon. If I cannae 
find Lapraik, I’ll join ye and the twa of us’ll have a 
erack wi’ him. But if Lapraik’s at hame, I'll rin 
up the flag at the harbour, and ye can try Thon Thing 
wi’ the gun.” 

Aweel, so it was agreed between them twa. I was 
just a bairn, an’ clum in Sandie’s boat, whaur I thoucht 
I would see the best of the employ. My grandsire 
gied Sandie a siller tester to pit in his gun wi’ the leid 
draps, bein’ mair deadly again bogles. And then the 
ae boat set aff for North Berwick, an’ the tither lay 
whaur it was and watched the wanchancy thing on the 
brae-side. 

A’ the time we lay there it lowped and flang and 
capered and span like a teetotum, and whiles we could 


TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK 141 


hear it skelloch as it span. I hae seen lassies, the daft 
queans, that would lowp and dance a winter’s nicht, 
and still be lowping and dancing when the winter’s 
day cam in. But there would be folk there to hauld 
them company, and the lads to egg them on; and this 
thing was its lee-lane. And there would be a fiddler 
diddling his elbock in the chimney-side; and this thing 
had nae music but the skirling of the solans. And the 
lassies were bits o’ young things wi’ the reid life 
dinnling and stending in their members; and this was 
a muckle, fat, creishy man, and him fa’n in the vale o’ 
years. Say what ye like, I maun say what I believe. 
It was joy was in the creature’s heart; the joy o’ hell, I 
daursay: joy whatever. Mony a time I have askit 
mysel’, why witches and warlocks should sell their 
sauls (whilk are their maist dear possessions) and be 
auld, duddy, wrunkl’t wives or auld, feckless, doddered 
men; and then I mind upon Tod Lapraik dancing a’ 
thae hours by his lane in the black glory of his heart. 
Nae doubt they burn for it in muckle hell, but they 
have a grand time here of it, whatever!—and the Lord 
forgie us! 

Weel, at the hinder end, we saw the wee flag yirk up 
to the mast-heid upon the harbour rocks. That was a’ 
Sandie waited for. He up wi’ the gun, took a deleeber- 
ate aim, an’ pu’d the trigger. There cam’ a bang and 
then ae waefu’ skirl frae the Bass. And there were we 
rubbin’ our een and lookin’ at ither like daft folk. For 
wi’ the bang and the skirl the thing had clean disap- 
peared. The sun glintit, the wund blew, and there was 
the bare yaird whaur the Wonder had been lowping 
and flinging but ae second syne. 

The hale way hame I roared and grat wi’ the terror 
of that dispensation. The grawn folk were nane sae 
muckle better; there was little said in Sandie’s boat 
but just the name of God; and when we won in by 
the pier, the harbour rocks were fair black wi’ the 
folk waitin’ for us. It seems they had found Lapraik 
in ane of his dwams, cawing the shuttle and smiling. 


142 DAVID BALFOUR 


Ae lad they sent to hoist the flag, and the rest abode 
there in the wabster’s house. You may be sure they 
likit it little; but it was a means of grace to severals 
that stood there praying in to themsel’s (for nane cared 
to pray out loud) and looking on thon awesome thing 
as it cawed the shuttle. Syne, upon a suddenty, and 
wi’ the ae dreidfu’ skelloch, Tod sprang up frae his 
hinderlands and fell forrit on the wab, a bluidy corp. 

When the corp was examined the leid draps hadnae 
played buff upon the warlock’s body; sorrow a leid 
drap was to be fund; but there was grandfaither’s 
siller tester in the puddock’s heart of him. 


Andie had scarce done when there befell a mighty 
silly affair that had its consequence. Neil, as I have 
said, was himself a great narrator. I have heard since 
that he knew all the stories in the Highlands; and 
thought much of himself, and was thought much of by 
others, on the strength of it. Now Andie’s tale re- 
minded him of one he had already heard. 

“She would ken that story afore,” he said. “She 
was the story of Uistean More M’Gillie Phadrig and 
the Gavar Vore.” 

“It is no sic a thing,” cried Andie. “It is the story 
of my faither (now wi’ God) and Tod Lapraik. And 
the same in your beard,” says he; “and keep the tongue 
of ye inside your Hielant chafts!” 

In dealing with Highlanders it will be found, and 
has been shown in history, how well it goes with Low- 
land gentlefolk; but the thing appears scarce feasible 
for Lowland commons. I had already remarked that 
Andie was continually on the point of quarrelling with 
our three Macgregors, and now, sure enough, it was 
to come. 
ey te will be no words to use to shentlemans,” says 
Neil. 

“Shentlemans!” cries Andie. ‘“Shentlemans, ye 
Hielant stot! If God would give ye the grace to see 


TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK 143 


yoursel’ the way that ithers see ye, ye would throw 
your denner up.” 

There came some kind of a Gaelic oath from Neil, 
and the black knife was in his hand that moment. 

There was no time to think; and I caught the High- 
lander by the leg, and had him down, and his armed 
hand pinned out, before I knew what I was doing. His 
comrades sprang to rescue him, Andie and I were with- 
out weapons, the Gregara three to two. It seemed we 
were beyond salvation, when Neil screamed n his own 
tongue, ordering the others back, and made his sub- 
mission to myself in a manner the most abject, even 
giving me up his knife which (upon a repetition of his 
promises) I returned to him on the morrow. 

Two things I saw plain: the first, that I must not 
build too high on Andie, who had shrunk against the 
wall and stood there, as pale as death, till the affair 
was over; the second, the strength of my own position 
with the Highlanders, who must have received extraor- 
dinary charges to be tender of my safety. But if I 
thought Andie came not very well out in courage, I had 
no fault to find with him upon the account of gratitude. 
It was not so much that he troubled me with thanks, as 
that his whole mind and manner appeared changed; 
and as he preserved ever after a great timidity of our 
companions, he and I were yet more constantly to- 
gether. 


CHAPTER XVI 
THE MISSING WITNESS 


N the seventeenth, the day I was trysted with the 

Writer, I had much rebellion against fate. The 
thought of him waiting in the Kings Arms, and of what 
he would think, and what he would say when next we 
met, tormented and oppressed me. The truth was un- 
believable, so much I had to grant, and it seemed cruel 
hard I should be posted as a liar and a coward, and 
have never consciously omitted what it was possible 
that I should do. I repeated this form of words with 
a kind of bitter relish, and re-examined in that light 
the steps of my behaviour. It seemed I had behaved 
to James Stewart as a brother might; all the past 
was a picture that I could be proud of, and there was 
only the present to consider. I could not swim the sea, © 
nor yet fly in the air, but there was always Andie. I 
had done him a service, he liked me; I had a lever 
there to work on; if he were just for decency, I must 
try once more with Andie. 

It was late afternoon; there was no sound in all the 
Bass but the lap and bubble of a very quiet sea; and 
my four companions were all crept apart, the three 
Macgregors higher on the rock, and Andie with his 
Bible to a sunny place among the ruins; there I found 
him in deep sleep, and, as soon as he awoke, appealed 
to him with some fervour of manner and a good show 
of argument. 

“Tf I thoucht it was to do guid to ye, Shaws!” said 
he, staring at me over his spectacles. 

“It’s to save another,” said I, “and to redeem my 
word. What would be more good than that? Do ye 

144 


THE MISSING WITNESS 145 


no mind the scripture, Andie? And you with the 
Book upon your lap! What shall rt profit a man if he 
gain the whole world?” 

“Ay,” said he, “that’s grand for you. But where do 
I come in? I have my word to redeem the same’s 
yoursel’. And what are ye asking me to do, but just to 
sell it ye for siller?” 

“Andie! have I named the name of siller?” cried I. 

“Ou, the name’s naething,” said he; “the thing is 
there, whatever. It just comes to this; if I am to 
service ye the way that you propose, I’ll lose my 
lifelihood. Then it’s clear ye’ll have to make it up to 
me, and a pickle mair, for your ain credit like. And 
what’s that but just a bribe? And if even I was cer- 
tain of the bribe! But by a’ that I can learn, it’s far 
frae that; and if you were to hang, where would J be? 
Na: the thing’s no possible. And just awa’ wi’ ye like 
a bonny lad! and let Andie read his chapter.” 

I remember I was at bottom a good deal gratified 
with this result; and the next humour I fell into was 
one (I had near said) of gratitude to Prestongrange, 
who had saved me, in this violent, illegal manner, out 
of the midst of my dangers, temptations, and perplex- 
ities. But this was both too flimsy and too cowardly 
to last me long, and the remembrance of James began 
to succeed to the possession of my spirits. The 21st, 
the day set for the trial, I passed in such misery of 
mind as I can scarce recall to have endured, save per- 
haps upon Isle Earraid only. Much of the time I lay 
on a brae-side betwixt sleep and waking, my body 
motionless, my mind full of violent thoughts. Some- 
times I slept indeed; but the court-house of Inverary 
and the prisoner glancing on all sides to find his miss- 
ing witness, followed me in slumber; and I would 
wake again with a start of darkness of spirit and 
distress of body. I thought Andie seemed to observe 
me, but I paid him little heed. Verily, my bread was 
bitter to me, and my days a burthen. 

Early the next morning (Friday, 22nd) a boat came 


146 DAVID BALFOUR 


with provisions, and Andie placed a packet in my hand. 
The cover was without address but sealed with a 
Government seal. It enclosed two notes. ‘Mr. Bal- 
four can now see for himself it is too late to meddle. 
His conduct will be observed and his discretion re- 
warded.” So ran the first, which seemed to be labo- 
riously writ with the left hand. There was certainly 
nothing in these expressions to compromise the writer, 
even if that person could be found; the seal, which 
formidably served instead of signature, was affixed 
to a separate sheet on which there was no scratch of 
writing; and I had to confess that (so far) my adver- 
saries knew what they were doing, and to digest as 
well as I was able the threat that peeped under the 
promise. 

But the second enclosure was by far the more sur- 
prising. It was in a lady’s hand of writ. ‘“Maister 
Dauvit Balfour is informed a friend was spetring for 
him, and her eyes were of the grey,” it ran—and 
seemed so extraordinary a piece to come to my hands 
at such a moment and under cover of a Government 
seal, that I stood stupid. Catriona’s grey eyes shone 
in my remembrance. I thought, with a bound of 
pleasure, she must be the friend. But who should the 
writer be, to have her billet thus enclosed with 
Prestongrange’s? And of all wonders, why was it 
thought needful to give me this pleasing but most 
inconsequential intelligence upon the Bass? For the 
writer, I could hit upon none possible except Miss 
Grant. Her family, 1 remembered, had remarked on 
Catriona’s eyes and even named her for their colour; 
and she herself had been much in the habit to address 
me with a broad pronunciation, by way of a sniff, I 
supposed, at my rusticity. No doubt, besides, but she 
lived in the same house as this letter came from. So 
there remained but one step to be accounted for; and 
that was how Prestongrange should have permitted 
her at all in an affair so secret, or let her daft-like 
billet go in the same cover with his own. But even 


THE MISSING WITNESS 147 


here I had a glimmering. For, first of all, there was 
something rather alarming about the young lady, and 
papa might be more under her domination than I knew. 
And second, there was a man’s continual policy to be 
remembered, how his conduct had been continually 
mingled with caresses, and he had scarce ever, in the 
midst of so much contention, laid aside a mask of 
friendship. He must conceive that my imprisonment 
had incensed me. Perhaps this little jesting, friendly 
message was intended to disarm my rancour? 

I will be honest—and I think it did. I felt a sudden 
warmth towards that beautiful Miss Grant, that she 
should stoop to so much interest in my affairs. The 
summoning up of Catriona moved me of itself to 
milder and more cowardly counsels. If the Advocate 
knew of her and of our acquaintance--~if I should 
please him by some of that ‘‘discretion” at which his 
letter pomted—to what might not this lead? In vain 
is the net spread in the sight of any fowl, the scripture 
says. Well, fowls must be wiser than folk! For I 
thought I perceived the policy, and yet fell in with it. 

I was in this frame, my heart beating, the grey eyes 
plain before me like two stars, when Andie broke in 
upon my musing. 

“I see ye hae gotten guid news,” said he. 

I found him looking curiously in my face; with that, 
there came before me like a vision of James Stewart 
and the court of Inverary; and my mind turned at 
once like a door upon its hinges. ‘Trials, I reflected, 
sometimes draw out longer than is looked for. Even 
if I came to Inverary just too late, something might 
yet be attempted in the interests of James—and in 
those of my own character, the best would be accom- 
plished. In a moment, it seemed without thought, I 
had a plan devised. 

“Andie,” said I, “is it still to be to-morrow?” 

He told me nothing was changed. 

“Was anything said about the hour?” I asked. 

He told me it was to be two o’clock afternoon. 


148 DAVID BALFOUR 


“And about the place?” I pursued. 

“Whatten place?” says Andie. 

“The place I’m to be landed at,” said I. 

He owned there was nothing as to that. 

“Very well, then,’ I said, ‘this shall be mine to 
arrange. The wind is in the east, my road lies west- 
ward; keep your boat, I hire it; let us work up the 
Forth all day; and land me at two o’clock to-morrow 
at the westmost we’ll can have reached.” 

“Ve daft callant!” he cried, “ye would try for 
Inverary after a’!” 

“Just that, Andie,” says I. 

“Weel, ye’re ill to beat!” says he. “And I was kind 
o’ sorry for ye a’ day yesterday,” he added. “Ye see, 
I was never entirely sure till then, which way of it ye 
really wantit.” 

Here was a spur to a lame horse! 

“A word in your ear, Andie,” said I. “This plan of 
mine has another advantage yet. We can leave these 
Hielandmen behind us on the rock, and one of your 
boats from the Castleton can bring them off to-morrow. 
Yon Neil has a queer eye when he regards you; maybe, 
if I was once out of the gate there might be knives 
again; these red-shanks are unco grudgeful. And if 
there should come to be any question, here is your 
excuse. Our lives were in danger by these savages; 
being answerable for my safety, you chose the part 
to bring me from their neighbourhood and detain me 
the rest of the time on board your boat: and do you 
know, Andie?” says I, with a smile, “I think it was 
very wisely chosen.” 

“The truth is I have nae goo for Neil,” says Andie, 
“nor he for me, I’m thinking; and I would like ill to 
come to my hands wi’ the man. Tam Anster will make 
a better hand of it with the cattle onyway.” (For this 
man, Anster, came from Fife, where the Gaelic is still 
spoken.) “Ay, ay!” says Andie, “Tam/’ll can deal 
with them the best. And troth! the mair I think of it, 
the less I see what way we would be required, The 


THE MISSING WITNESS 149 


place—ay, feggs! they had forgot the place. Eh, 
Shaws, ye’re a lang-heided chield when ye like! Forbye 
that I’m awing ye my life,’ he added, with more solem- 
nity, and offered me his hand upon the bargain. 

Whereupon, with scarce more words, we stepped 
suddenly on board the boat, cast off, and set the lug. 
The Gregara were then busy upon breakfast, for the 
cookery was their usual part; but, one of them stepping 
to the battlements, our flight was observed before we 
were twenty fathoms from the rock; and the three 
of them ran about the ruins and the landing-shelf, for 
all the world like ants about a broken nest, hailing 
and crying on us to return. We were still in both the 
lee and the shadow of the rock, which last lay broad 
upon the waters, but presently came forth in almost 
the same moment into the wind and sunshine; the sail 
filled, the boat heeled to the gunwale, and we swept 
immediately beyond sound of the men’s voices. To 
what terrors they endured upon the rock, where they 
were now deserted without the countenance of any 
civilised person or so much as the protection of a Bible, 
no limit can be set; nor had they any brandy left to 
be their consolation, for even in the haste and secrecy 
of our departure Andie had managed to remove it. 

It was our first care to set Anster ashore in a cove 
by the Glenteithy Rocks, so that the deliverance of 
our maroons might be duly seen to the next day. 
Thence we kept away up Firth. The breeze, which was 
then so spirited, swiftly declined, but never wholly 
failed us. All day we kept moving, though often not 
much more; and it was after dark ere we were up with 
the Queen’s Ferry. To keep the letter of Andie’s engage- 
ment (or what was left of it) I must remain on board, 
but I thought no harm to communicate with the shore 
in writing. On Prestongrange’s cover, where the 
Government seal must have a good deal surprised my 
correspondent, I writ, by the boat’s lantern, a few 
necessary words, and Andie carried them to Rankeillor. 
In about an hour he came aboard again, with a purse 


150 DAVID BALFOUR 


of money and the assurance that a good horse should 
be standing saddled for me by two to-morrow at 
Clackmannan Pool. ‘This done, and the boat riding 
Beat stone anchor, we lay down to sleep under the 
sail. 

We were in the Pool the next day long ere two; and 
there was nothing left for me but sit and wait. I felt 
little alacrity upon my errand. I would have been 
glad of any passable excuse to lay it down; but none 
being to be found, my uneasiness was no less great 
than if I had been running to some desired pleasure. 
By shortly after one the horse was at the waterside, 
and I could see a man walking it to and fro till I should 
land, which vastly swelled my impatience. Andie ran 
the moment of my liberation very fine, showing himself 
a man of his bare word, but scarce serving his em- 
ployers with a heaped measure; and by about fifty 
seconds after two I was in the saddle and on the full 
stretch for Stirling. In a little more than an hour I 
had passed the town, and was already mounting Alan 
Waterside, when the weather broke in a small tempest. 
The rain blinded me, the wind had nearly beat me from 
the saddle, and the first darkness of the night sur- 
prised me in a wilderness still some way east of Bal- 
whidder, not very sure of my direction and mounted 
on a horse that began already to be weary. 

In the press of my hurry, and to be spared the delay 
and annoyance of a guide, I had followed (so far as it 
was possible for any horseman) the line of my journey 
with Alan. This I did with open eyes, foreseeing a 
great risk in it, which the tempest had now brought to 
a reality. The last that I knew of where I was, I 
think it must have been about Uam Var; the hour 
perhaps six at night. I must still think it great good 
fortune that I got about eleven to my destination, the 
house of Duncan Dhu. Where I had wandered in the 
interval perhaps the horse could tell. I know we were 
twice down, and once over the saddle and for a moment 


THE MISSING WITNESS 151 


carried away in a roaring burn. Steed and rider were 
bemired up to the eyes. 

From Duncan I had news of the trial. It was fol- 
lowed in all the Highland regions with religious 
interest; news of it spread from Inverary as swift as 
men could travel; and I was rejoiced to learn that, up 
to a late hour that Saturday, it was not yet con- 
cluded; and all men began to suppose it must spread 
over to Monday. Under the spur of this intelligence 
I would not sit to eat; but, Duncan having agreed to 
be my guide, took the road again on foot, with the 
piece in my hand and munching as I went. Duncan 
brought with him a flask of usquebaugh and a hand- 
lantern; which last enlightened us just so long as we 
could find houses where to rekindle it, for the thing 
leaked outrageously and blew out with every gust. 
The more part of the night we walked blindfold among 
sheets of rain, and day found us aimless on the moun- 
tains. Hard by we struck a hut on a burn-side, where 
we got a bite and a direction; and, a little before the 
end of the sermon, came to the kirk-doors of Inverary. 

The rain had somewhat washed the upper parts of 
me, but I was still bogged as high as to the knees: I 
streamed water; I was so weary I could hardly limp, 
and my face was like a ghost’s. I stood certainly more 
in need of a change of raiment and a bed to lie on, 
than of all the benefits in Christianity. For all which 
{being persuaded the chief point for me was to make 
myself immediately public) I set the door open, entered 
that church with the dirty Duncan at my tails, and 
finding a vacant place hard by, sat down. 

“Thirteenthly, my. brethren, and in parenthesis, the 
law itself must be regarded as a means of grace,’ the 
minister was saying, in the voice of one delighting to 
pursue an argument, 

The sermon was in English on account of the assize. 
The judges were present with their armed attendants, 
and halberts glittered in a corner by the door, and the 
seats were thronged beyond custom with the array of 


152 DAVID BALFOUR 


lawyers. The text was in Romans 5th and 13th—the 
minister a skilled hand; and the whole of that able 
churchful—from Argyle, and my Lords Elchies and 
Kailkerran, down to the halbertmen that came in their 
attendance—was sunk with gathered brows in a pro- 
found critical attention. ‘The minister himself and a 
sprinkling of those about the door observed our | 
entrance at the moment and immediately forgot the 
same; the rest either did not hear or would not heed; 
and I sat there amongst my friends and enemies un- 
remarked. 

The first that I singled out was Prestongrange. He 
sat well forward, like an eager horseman in the saddle, 
his lips moving with relish, his eyes glued on the 
minister: the doctrine was clearly to his mind. Charles 
Stewart, on the other hand, was half asleep, and looked 
harassed and pale. As for Simon Fraser, he appeared 
like a blot, and almost a scandal, in the midst of that 
attentive congregation, digging his hands in his pockets, 
shifting his legs, clearing his throat, rolling up his bald 
eyebrows and shooting out his eyes to right and left, 
now with a yawn, now with a secret smile. At times 
too, he would take the Bible in front of him, run it 
through, seem to read a bit, run it through again, and 
stop and yawn prodigiously: the whole as if for exer- 
cise. 

In the course of this restlessness his eye alighted on 
myself. He sat a second stupefied, then tore a half 
leaf out of the Bible, scrawled upon it with a pencil, 
and passed it with a whispered word to his next neigh- 
bour. The note came to Prestongrange, who gave me 
but the one look; thence it voyaged to the hands of Mr. 
Erskine; thence again to Argyle, where he sat between 
the other two lords of session, and his Grace turned 
and fixed me with an arrogant eye. The last of those 
interested to observe my presence was Charlie Stewart, 
and he too began to pencil and hand about despatches, 
none of which I was able to trace to their destination 
in the crowd. 


THE MISSING WITNESS 153 


But the passage of these notes had aroused notice; 
all who were in the secret (or supposed themselves to 
be so) were whispering information—the rest ques- 
tions; and the minister himself seemed quite dis- 
countenanced by the flutter in the church and sudden 
stir and whispering. His voice changed, he plainly 
faltered, nor did he again recover the easy conviction 
and full tones of his delivery. It would be a puzzle 
to him till his dying day, why a sermon that had gone 
with triumph through four parts, should thus miscarry 
in the fifth. 

As for me, I continued to sit there, very wet and 
weary, and a good deal anxious as to what should 
happen next, but greatly exulting in my success. 


CHAPTER XVII 
THE MEMORIAL 


HE last word of the blessing was scarce out of 

the minister’s mouth before Stewart had me by 
the arm. We were first to be forth of the church, and 
he made such extraordinary expedition that we were 
safe within the four walls of a house before the street 
had begun to be thronged with the home-going congre- 
gation. 

“Am I yet in time?” I asked. 

“Ay and no,’ said he. “The case is over; the jury 
is enclosed, and will be so kind as let us ken their view 
of it to-morrow in the morning, the same as I could 
have told it my own self three days ago before the 
play began. The thing has been public from the start. 
The panel kent it, ‘Ye may do what ye will for me, 
whispers he two days ago. ‘I ken my fate by what the 
Duke of Argyle has just said to Mr. Macintosh’ O, 
it’s been a scandal! 


The great Argyle he gaed before, 
He gart the cannons and guns to roar, 


and the very macer cried ‘Cruachan!’ But now that 
I have got you again I’ll never despair. The oak shall 
go over the myrtle yet; we’ll ding the Campbells yet 
in their own town. Praise God that I should see the 
day!” 

He was leaping with excitement, emptied out his 
mails upon the floor that I might have a change of 
clothes, and incommoded me with his assistance as I 
changed. What remained to be done, or how I was 

154 


THE MEMORIAL 155 


to do it, was what he never told me nor, I believe, so 
much as thought of. “We'll ding the Campbells yet!” 
that was still his overcome. And it was forced home 
upon my mind how this, that had the externals of a 
sober process of law, was in its essence a clan battle 
between savage clans. I thought my friend the Writer 
none of the least savage. Who, that had only seen 
him at a counsel’s back before the Lord Ordinary or 
following a golf ball and laying down his clubs on 
Bruntsfield links, could have recognised for the same 
person this voluble and violent clansman? 

James Stewart’s counsel were four in number— 
Sheriffs Brown of Colstoun and Miller, Mr. Robert 
Macintosh and Mr. Stewart, younger, of Stewart Hall. 
These were covenanted to dine with the Writer after 
sermon, and I was very obligingly included of the 
party. No sooner the cloth lifted, and the first bowl 
very artfully compounded by Sheriff Miller, than we 
fell to the subject in hand. I made a short narration 
of my seizure and captivity, and was then examined 
and re-examined upon the circumstances of the murder. 
It will be remembered this was the first time I had 
had my say out, or the matter at all handled, among 
lawyers; and the consequence was very dispiriting to 
the others and (I must own) disappointing to myself. 

“To sum up,” said Colstoun, “you prove that Alan 
was on the spot; you have heard him proffer menaces 
against Glenure; and though you assure us he was 
not the man who fired, you leave a strong impression 
that he was in league with him, and consenting, per- 
haps immediately assisting, in the act. You show him 
besides, at the risk of his own liberty, actively further- 
ing the criminal’s escape. And the rest of your testi- 
mony (so far as the least material) depends on the bare 
word of Alan or of James, the two accused. In short, 
you do not at all break, but only lengthen by one 
personage, the chain that binds our client to the 
murderer; and I need scarcely say that the intro- 
duction of a third accomplice rather aggravates that 


156 DAVID BALFOUR 


appearance of a conspiracy which has been our stum- 
bling block from the beginning.” 

“T am of the same opinion,” said Sheriff Miller. “I 
think we may all be very much obliged to Preston- 
grange for taking a most uncomfortable witness out 
of our way. And chiefly, I think, Mr. Balfour himself 
might be obliged. For you talk of a third accomplice, 
but Mr. Balfour (in my view) has very much the 
appearance of a fourth.” 

“Allow me, sirs!” interposed Stewart the Writer. 
“There is another view. Here we have a witness— 
never fash whether material or not—a witness in this 
cause, kidnapped by that old, lawless, bandit crew of 
the Glengyle Macgregors, and sequestered for near 
upon a month in a bourock of old cold ruins on the 
Bass. Move that and see what dirt you fling on the 
proceedings! Sirs, this is a tale to make the world 
ring with! It would be strange, with such a grip as 
this, if we couldnae squeeze out a pardon for my 
client.” 

“And suppose we took up Mr. Balfour’s cause to- 
morrow?” said Stewart Hall. “I am much deceived 
or we should find so many impediments thrown in our 
path, as that James should have been hanged before 
we had found a court to hear us. This is a great 
scandal, but I suppose we have none of us forgot a 
greater still. I mean the matter of the Lady Grange. 
The woman was still in durance; my friend Mr. Hope 
of Rankeillor did what was humanly possible; and 
how did he speed? He never got a warrant! Well, 
it’ll be the same now; the same weapons will be used. 
This is a scene, gentlemen, of clan animosity. The 
hatred of the name which I have the honour to bear, 
rages in high quarters. There is nothing here to be 
viewed but naked Campbell spite and scurvy Campbell 
intrigue.” 

You may be sure this was to touch a welcome topic, 
and I sat for some time in the midst of my learned 
counsel, almost deaved with their talk but extremely 


THE MEMORIAL 157 


little the wiser for its purport. The Writer was led 
into some hot expressions; Colstoun must take him up 
and set him right; the rest Joined in on different sides, 
but all pretty noisy; the Duke of Argyle was beaten 
like a blanket; King George came in for a few digs 
in the by-going and a great deal of rather elaborate 
defence: and there was only one person that seemed 
to be forgotten, and that was James of the Glens. 

Through all this Mr. Miller sat quiet. He was a slip 
of an oldish gentleman, ruddy and twinkling; he spoke 
in a smooth rich voice, with an infinite effect of 
pawkiness, dealing out each word the way an actor 
does, to give the most expression possible; and even 
now, when he was silent, and sat there with his wig 
laid aside, his glass in both hands, his mouth funnily 
pursed, and his chin out, he seemed the mere picture of 
a merry slyness. It was plain he had a word to say, 
and waited for the fit occasion. 

It came presently. Colstoun had wound up one of 
his speeches with some expression of their duty to their 
client. His brother sheriff was pleased, I suppose, with 
the transition. He took the table in his confidence with 
a gesture and a look. 

“That suggests to me a consideration which seems 
overlooked,” said he. ‘The interest of our client goes 
certainly before all, but the world does not come to an 
end with James Stewart.” Whereat he cocked his eye. 
“IT might condescend, exempli gratia, upon a Mr. 
George Brown, a Mr. Thomas Miller, and a Mr. David 
Balfour. Mr. David Balfour has a very good ground 
of complaint, and I think, gentlemen—if his story was 
properly redd out—I think there would be a number 
of wigs on the green.” | 

The whole table turned to him with a common move- 
ment. 

“Properly handled and carefully redd out, his is a 
story that could scarcely fail to have some conse- 
quence,” he continued. ‘The whole administration of 
justice, from its highest officer downward, would be 


158 ) DAVID BALFOUR 


totally discredited; and it looks to me as if they would 
need to be replaced.” He seemed to shine with cunning 
as he said it. “And I need not point out to ye that this 
of Mr. Balfour’s would be a remarkable bonny cause 
to appear in,” he added. 

Well, there they all were started on another hare; 
Mr. Balfour’s cause, and what kind of speeches could 
be there delivered, and what officials could be thus 
turned out, and who would succeed to their positions. 
I shall give but the two specimens. It was proposed 
to approach Simon Fraser, whose testimony, if it could 
be obtained, would prove certainly fatal to Argyle and 
Prestongrange. Miller highly approved of the at- 
tempt. ‘We have here before us a dreeping roast,” 
said he, “here is cut-and-come-again for all.” And 
methought all licked their lips. The other was already 
near the end. Stewart the Writer was out of the body 
with delight, smelling vengeance on his chief enemy, 
the Duke. 

“Gentlemen,” cried he, charging his glass, “here is to 
Sheriff Miller. His legal abilities are known to all. 
His culinary, this bowl in front of us is here to speak 
for. But when it comes to the poleetical!”—cries he, 
and drains the glass. 

“Ay, but it will hardly prove politics in your mean- 
ing, my friend,” said the gratified Miller. “A revo- 
lution, if you like, and I think I can promise you that 
historical writers shall date from Mr. Balfour’s cause. 
But properly guided, Mr. Stewart, tenderly guided, it 
shall prove a peaceful revolution.” 

“And if the damned Campbells get their ears rubbed, 
what care I?” cries Stewart, smiting down his fist. 

it will be thought I was not very well pleased with 
all this, though I could scarce forbear smiling at a 
kind of innocency in these old intriguers. But it was 
not my view to have undergone so many sorrows for 
the advancement of Sheriff Miller or to make a revo- 
lution in the Parliament House: and I interposed 


THE MEMORIAL 159 


accordingly with as much simplicity of manner as I 
could assume. 

“T have to thank you, gentlemen, for your advice,” 
said I. “And now I would like, by your leave, to set 
you two or three questions. There is one thing that 
has fallen rather on one side, for instance: Will this 
cause do any good to our friend James of the Glens?” 

They seemed all a hair set back, and gave various 
answers, but concurring practically in one point, that 
James had now no hope but in the King’s mercy. 

“To proceed, then,” said I, “will it do any good to 
Scotland? We have a saying that it is an ill bird that 
fouls his own nest. I remember hearing we had a 
riot in Edinburgh when I was an infant child, which 
gave occasion to the late Queen to call this country 
barbarous; and I always understood that we had rather 
lost than gained by that. Then came the year ’Forty- 
five, which made Scotland to be talked of everywhere; 
but I never heard it said we had anyway gained by the 
Forty-five. And now we come to this cause of Mr. 
Balfour’s, as you call it. Sheriff Miller tells us his- 
torical writers are to date from it, and I would not 
- wonder. It is only my fear they would date from it 
as a period of calamity and public reproach.” 

The nimble-witted Miller had already smelt where 
I was travelling to, and made haste to get on the same 
road. “Forcibly put, Mr. Balfour,” says he “A 
weighty observe, sir.” 

“We have next to ask ourselves if it will be good for 
King George,” I pursued. “Sheriff Miller appears 
pretty easy upon this; but I doubt you will scarce be 
able to pull down the house from under him, without 
his Majesty coming by a knock or two, one of which 
might easily prove fatal.” 

I gave them a chance to answer, but none volun- 
teered. 

“Of those for whom the case was to be profitable,” 
I went on, “Sheriff Miller gave us the names of several 
among the which he was good enough to mention mine. 


160 DAVID BALFOUR 


I hope he will pardon me if I think otherwise. I 
believe I hung not the least back in this affair while 
there was life to be saved; but I own I thought myself 
extremely hazarded, and I own I think it would be 
a pity for a young man, with some idea of coming to 
the bar, to ingrain upon himself the character of a 
turbulent, factious fellow before he was yet twenty. 
As for James, it seems—at this date of the proceed- 
ings, with the sentence as good as pronounced—he has 
no hope but in the King’s mercy. May not his Majesty, 
then, be more pointedly addressed, the characters of 
these high offices sheltered from the public, and myself 
kept out of a position which I think spells ruin for 
me?” 

They all sat and gazed into their glasses and I could 
see they found my attitude on the affair unpalatable. 
But Miller was ready at all events. 

“Tf I may be allowed to put our young friend’s 
notion in more formal shape,” says he, “I understand 
him to propose that we should embody the fact of his 
sequestration, and perhaps some heads of the testi- 
mony he was prepared to offer, in a memorial to the 
Crown. This plan has elements of success. It is as 
likely as any other (and perhaps likelier) to help our 
client. Perhaps his Majesty would have the goodness 
to feel a certain gratitude to all concerned in such a 
memorial, which might be construed into an expression 
of a very delicate loyalty; and I think, in the drafting 
of the same, this view might be brought forward.” 

They all nodded to each other, not without sighs, 
for the former alternative was doubtless more after 
their inclination. 

“Paper then, Mr. Stewart, if you please,” pursued 
Miller; ‘and I think it might very fittingly be signed 
by the five of us here present, as procurators for the 
‘condemned man.’ ”’ 

“Tt can do none of us any harm at least,” says Col- 
stoun, heaving another sigh, for he had seen himself 
Lord Advocate the last ten minutes. 


THE MEMORIAL 161 


Thereupon they set themselves, not very enthusi- 
astically, to draft the memorial—a process in the course 
of which they soon caught fire; and I had no more ado 
but to sit looking on and answer an occasional ques- 
tion. The paper was very well expressed; beginning 
with a recitation of the facts about myself, the reward 
offered for my apprehension, my surrender, the pres- 
sure brought to bear upon me; my sequestration; and 
my arrival at Inverary in time to be too late; going 
on to explain the reasons of loyalty and public interest 
for which it was agreed to waive any right of action; 
and winding up with a forcible appeal to the King’s 
mercy on behalf of James. 

Methought I was a good deal sacrificed, and rather 
represented in the light of a firebrand of a fellow whom 
my cloud of lawyers had restrained with difficulty 
from extremes. But I let it pass, and made but the 
one suggestion, that I should be described as ready to 
deliver my own evidence and adduce that of others 
before any commission of inquiry—and the one de- 
mand, that I should be immediately furnished with a 
copy. 

Colstoun hummed and hawed. ‘This is a very con- 
fidential document,”’ said he. 

“And my position towards Prestongrange is highly 
peculiar,’ I replied. ‘No question but I must have 
touched his heart at our first interview, so that he has 
since stood my friend consistently. But for him, 
gentlemen, I must now be lying dead or awaiting my 
sentence alongside poor James. For which reason I 
choose to communicate to him the fact of this memorial 
as soon as it is copied. You are to consider also that 
this step will make for my protection. I have enemies 
here accustomed to drive hard; his Grace is in his own 
country, Lovat by his side; and if there should hang 
any ambiguity over our proceedings I think I might 
very well awake in gaol.” 

Not finding any very ready answer to these con- 
siderations, my company of advisers were at the last 


162 DAVID BALFOUR 


persuaded to consent, and made only this condition 
that I was to lay the paper before Prestongrange with 
the express compliments of all concerned. 

The Advocate was at the castle dining with his 
Grace. By the hand of one of Colstoun’s servants I 
sent him a billet asking for an interview, and received 
a summons to meet him at once in a private house of 
the town. Here I found him alone in a chamber; 
from his face there was nothing to be gleaned; yet 
I was not so unobservant but what I spied some 
halberts in the hall, and not so stupid but what I could 
gather he was prepared to arrest me there and then, 
should it appear advisable. 

“So, Mr. David, this is you?” said he. 

“Where I fear I am not overly welcome, my lord,” 
said I. ‘And I would like before I go further to express 
my sense of your lordship’s continued good offices, even 
should they now cease.” 

“T have heard of your gratitude before,’ he replied 
drily, ‘and I think this can scarce be the matter you 
ealled me from my wine to listen to. I would remem- 
ber also, if I were you, that you still stand on a very 
boggy foundation.” 

“Not now, my lord, I think,” said I; ‘and if your 
lordship will but glance an eye along this, you will 
perhaps think as I do.” 

He read it sedulously through, frowning heavily; 
then turned back to one part and another which he 
seemed to weigh and compare the effect of. His face 
a little lightened. 

“This is not so bad but what it might be worse,” said 
he; ‘though I am still likely to pay dear for my 
acquaintance with Mr. David Balfour.” 

“Rather for your indulgence in that unlucky young 
man, my lord,” said I. 

He still skimmed the paper, and all the while his 
spirits seemed to mend. 

“And to whom am I indebted for this?” he asked 


THE MEMORIAL 163 


presently. ‘Other counsels must have been discussed, 
I think. Who was it proposed this private method? 
Was it Miller?” 

“My lord, it was myself,” said I. ‘These gentle- 
men have shown me no such consideration, as that I 
should deny myself any credit J can fairly claim, or 
spare them any responsibility they should properly 
bear. And the mere truth is, that they were all in 
favour of a process which should have remarkable 
consequences in the Parliament House, and prove for 
them (in one of their own expressions) a dripping 
roast. Before I intervened, I think they were on the 
point of sharing out in the different law appointments. 
Our friend Mr. Simon was to be taken in upon some 
composition.” 

Prestongrange smiled. “These are our friends!” 
said he. “And what were your reasons for dissenting, 
Mr. David?” 

I told them without concealment, expressing, how- 
ever, with more force and volume those which regarded 
Prestongrange himself. } 

“You do me no more than justice,” said he. “I have 
fought as hard in your interest as you have fought 
against mine. And how came you here to-day?” he 
asked. “As the case drew out, I began to grow uneasy 
that I had clipped the period so fine, and I was even 
expecting you to-morrow. But to-day—I never. 
dreamed of it.” 

I was not, of course, going to betray Andie. 

“T suspect there is some very weary cattle by the 
road,” said I. 

“Tf I had known you were such a mosstrooper you 
should have tasted longer of the Bass,” says he. 

“Speaking of which, my lord, I return your letter.” 
And I gave him the enclosure in the counterfeit hand. 

“There was the cover also with the seal,” said he. 

“I have it not,” said I. “It bore nought but the 
address, and could not compromise a cat. The second 


164 DAVID BALFOUR 


enclosure I have, and with your permission, I desire 
to keep it.” 

I thought he winced a little, but he said nothing to 
the point. ‘To-morrow,’ he resumed, ‘‘our business 
here is to be finished, and I proceed by Glasgow. I 
would be very glad to have you of my party, Mr. 
David.” 

Shay ord cite ashe Lebegan: 

“T do not deny it will be of service to me,” he inter- 
rupted. “I desire even then, when we shall come to 
Edinburgh you should alight at my house. You have 
very warm friends in the Miss Grants, who will be 
overjoyed to have you to themselves. If you think 
I have been of use to you, you can thus easily repay 
me, and so far from losing, may reap some advantage 
by the way. It is not every strange young man who 
is presented in society by the King’s Advocate.” 

Often enough already (in our brief relations) this 
gentleman had caused my head to spin; no doubt but 
what for a moment he did so again now. Here was the 
old fiction still maintained of my particular favour 
with his daughters, one of whom had been so good as 
to laugh at me, while the other two had scarce deigned 
to remark the fact of my existence. And now I was to 
ride with my lord to Glasgow; I was to dwell with him 
in Edinburgh; I was to be brought into society under 
his protection! That he should have so much good- 
nature as to forgive me was surprising enough; that he 
could wish to take me up and serve me seemed im- 
possible; and I began to seek for some ulterior mean- 
ing. One was plain. If I became his guest, repentance 
was excluded; I could never think better of my present 
design and bring any action. And besides, would not 
my presence in his house draw out the whole pungency 
of the memorial? For that complaint could not be 
seriously regarded, if the person chiefly injured was the 
guest of the official most incriminated. As I thought 
upon this, I could not quite refrain from smiling. 


THE MEMORIAL 165 


“This is in the nature of a countercheck to the 
memorial?” said I. 

“Vou are cunning, Mr. David,” said he, “and you 
do not wholly guess wrong; the fact will be of use to 
me in my defence. Perhaps, however, you underrate 
my friendly sentiments, which are perfectly genuine. 
I have respect for you, Mr. David, mingled with awe,” 
says he, smiling. 

“T am more than willing, I am earnestly desirous to 
meet your wishes,” said I. “It is my design to be 
called to the bar, where your lordship’s countenance 
would be invaluable; and I am besides sincerely grate- 
ful to yourself and family for different marks of 
interest and of indulgence. The difficulty is here. 
There is one point in which we pull two ways. You 
are trying to hang James Stewart, I am trying to save 
him. In so far as my riding with you would better 
your lordship’s defence, I am at your lordship’s orders; 
but in so far as it would help to hang James Stewart, 
you see me at a stick.” 

I thought he swore to himself. ‘“You should cer- 
tainly be called; the bar is the true scene for your 
talents,” says he, bitterly, and then fell a while silent. 
“T will tell you,” he presently resumed, “there is no 
question of James Stewart, for or against. James is a 
dead man; his life is given and taken—bought (if you 
like it better) and sold; no memorial can help—no 
defalcation of a faithful Mr. David hurt him. Blow 
high, blow low, there will be no pardon for James 
Stewart: and take that for said! The question is now 
of myself: am I to stand or fall? and I do not deny 
to you that I am in some danger. But will Mr. David 
Balfour consider why? It is not because I have pushed 
the case unduly against James; for that, I am sure of 
condonation. And it is not because I have sequestered 
Mr. David on a rock, though it will pass under that 
colour; but because I did not take the ready and plain 
path, to which I was pressed repeatedly, and send Mr. 
David to his grave or to the gallows. Hence the 


166 DAVID BALFOUR 


scandal—hence this damned memorial,” striking the 
paper on his leg. “My tenderness for you has brought 
me in this difficulty. I wish to know if your tenderness 
to your own conscience is too great to let you help me 
out of it?” 

No doubt but there was much of the truth in what 
he said; if James was past helping, whom was it more 
natural that I should turn to help than just the man 
before me, who had helped myself so often, and was 
even now setting me a pattern of patience? I was be- 
sides not only weary, but beginning to be ashamed of 
my perpetual attitude of suspicion and refusal. 

“Tf you will name the time and place, I will be 
punctually ready to attend your lordship,” said I. 

He shook hands with me. “And I think my misses 
have some news for you,” says he, dismissing me. 

I came away, vastly pleased to have my peace made, 
yet a little concerned in conscience; nor could I help 
wondering, as I went back, whether, perhaps, I had not 
been a scruple too good-natured. But there was the 
fact, that this was a man that might have been my 
father, an able man, a great dignitary, and one that, 
in the hour of my need, had reached a hand to my 
assistance. I was in the better humour to enjoy the 
remainder of that evening, which I passed with the 
advocates, in excellent company no doubt, but perhaps 
with rather more than a sufficiency of punch: for 
though I went early to bed I have no clear mind of 
how I got there. 


CHAPTER XVIII 
THE TEE’D BALL 


N the morrow, from the justices’ private room, 
where none could see me, I heard the verdict 
given in and judgment rendered upon James. The 
Duke’s words I am quite sure I have correctly; and 
since that famous passage has been made a subject of 
dispute, I may as well commemorate my version. 
Having referred to the year ’45, the chief of the Camp- 
bells, sitting as Justice-General upon the bench, thus 
addressed the unfortunate Stewart before him: “If 
you had been successful in that rebellion, you might 
have been giving the law where you have now received 
the judgment of it; we, who are this day your judges, 
might have been tried before one of your mock courts 
of judicature; and then you might have been satiated 
with the blood of any name or clan to which you had 
an aversion.” 
“This is to let the cat out of the bag, indeed,” thought 
TI. And that was the general impression. It was 
extraordinary how the young advocate lads took hold 
and made a mock of this speech, and how scarce a meal 
passed but what some one would get in the words: 
“And then you might have been satiated.” Many 
songs were made in that time for the hour’s diversion, 
and are near all forgot. J remember one began: 


What do ye want the bluid of, bluid of? 
Is it a name, or is it a clan, 
Or is it an aefauld Hielandman, 

That ye want the bluid of, bluid of? 


167 


168 DAVID BALFOUR 


Another went to my old favourite air, The House of 
Airlie, and began thus: 


It fell on a day when Argyle was on the bench, 
That they served him a Stewart for his denner, 


And one of the verses ran: 


Then up and spak the Duke, and flyted on his cook, 
I regard it as a sensible aspersion, 

That I would sup ava’, an’ satiate my maw, 
With the bluid of ony clan of my aversion. 


James was as fairly murdered as though the Duke 
had got a fowling-piece and stalked him. So much of 
course I knew: but others knew not so much, and were 
more affected by the items of scandai that came to 
light in the progress of the cause. One of the chief 
was certainly this sally of the justice’s. It was run 
hard by another of a juryman, who had struck into the 
midst. of Colstoun’s speech for the defense with a 
“Pray, sir, cut it short, we are quite weary,’ which 
seemed the very excess of impudence and simplicity. 
But some of my new lawyer friends were still more 
staggered with an innovation that had disgraced and 
even vitiated the proceedings. One witness was never 
called. His name, indeed, was printed, where it may 
still be seen on the fourth page of the list: “James 
Drummond, alias Macgregor, alias James More, late 
tenant in Inveronachile”’; and his precognition had 
been taken, as the manner is, in writing. He had re- 
membered or invented (God help him) matter which 
was lead in James Stewart’s shoes, and I saw was like 
to prove wings to his own. This testimony it was 
highly desirable to bring to the notice of the jury, 
without exposing the man himself to the perils of cross- 
examination; and the way it was brought about was a 
matter of surprise to all. For the paper was handed 
round (like a curiosity) in court; passed through the 
jury-box, where it did its work; and disappeared again 


THE TEE’D BALL 169 


(as though by accident) before it reached the counsel 
for the prisoner. This was counted a most insidious 
device; and that the name of James More should be 
mingled up with it filled me with shame for Catriona 
and concern for myself. 

The following day, Prestongrange and I, with a con- 
siderable company, set out for Glasgow, where (to my 
impatience) we continued to linger some time in a 
mixture of pleasure and affairs. I lodged with my lord, 
with whom I was encouraged to familiarity; had my 
place at entertainments; was presented to the chief 
guests; and altogether made more of than I thought 
accorded either with my parts or station; so that, on 
strangers being present, I would often blush for 
Prestongrange. It must be owned the view I had taken 
of the world in these last months was fit to cast a gloom 
upon my character. I had met many men, some of 
them leaders in Israel whether by their birth or talents; 
and who among them all had shown clean hands? As 
for the Browns and Millers, I had seen their self- 
seeking, I could never again respect them. Preston- 
grange was the best yet; he had saved me, had spared 
me rather, when others had it in their minds to murder 
me outright; but the blood of James lay at his door; 
and I thought his present dissimulation with myself a 
thing below pardon. That he should affect to find 
pleasure in my discourse almost surprised me out of 
my patience. I would sit and watch him with a kind 
of a slow fire of anger in my bowels. “Ah, friend, 
friend,” I would think to myself, “if you were but 
through with this affair of the memorial, would you 
not kick me in the streets?” Here I did him, as events 
have proved, the most grave injustice; and I think he 
was at once far more sincere, and a far more artful 
performer than I supposed. 

But I had some warrant for my incredulity in the 
behaviour of that court of young advocates that hung 
about him in the hope of patronage. The sudden 
favour of a lad not previously heard of troubled them 


170 DAVID BALFOUR 


at first out of measure; but two days were not gone by 
before I found myself surrounded with flattery and 
attention. I was the same young man, and neither 
better nor bonnier, that they had rejected a month 
before; and now there was no civility too fine for me! 
The same, do I say? It was not so; and the by-name 
by which I went behind my back confirmed it. Seeing 
me so firm with the Advocate, and persuaded that I 
was to fly high and far, they had taken a word from 
the golfing green, and called me the Tee’d Ball. I was 
told I was now “one of themselves”; I was to taste 
of their soft lining, who had already made my own 
experience of the roughness of the outer husk; and 
one, to whom I had been presented in Hope Park, was 
so assured as even to remind me of that meeting. I 
told him I had not the pleasure of remembering it. 

“Why,” says he, “it was Miss Grant herself presented 
me! My name is so-and-so.” 

“It may very well be, sir,” said I; “but I have kept 
no mind of it.” 

At which he desisted; and in the midst of the disgust 
that commonly overflowed my spirits I had a glisk of 
pleasure. 

But I have not patience to dwell upon that time at 
length. When I was in company with these young 
politics I was borne down with shame for myself and 
my own plain ways, and scorn for them and their 
duplicity. Of the two evils, I thought Prestongrange 
to be the least; and while I was always as stiff as 
buckram to the young bloods, I made rather a dis- 
simulation of my hard feelings toward the Advocate, 
and was (in old Mr. Campbell’s word) “‘soople to the 
laird.”” Himself commented on the difference, and bid 
me be more of my age, and make friends with my 
young comrades. 

I told him I was slow in making friends. 

“T will take the word back,” said he. “But there is 


*A ball placed upon a little mound for convenience of striking, 


THE TEE’D BALL 171 


such a thing as Fair gude e’en and fair gude day, Mr. 
David. These are the same young men with whom 
you are to pass your days and get through life: your 
backwardness has a look of arrogance; and unless you 
can assume a little more lightness of manner, I fear 
you will meet difficulties in the path.” 

“Tt will be an ill job to make a silk purse of a sow’s 
ear,” said I. 

On the morning of October Ist I was awakened by 
the clattefing of an express; and getting to my window 
almost before he had dismounted, I saw the messenger 
had ridden hard. Somewhile after I was called to 
Prestongrange, where he was sitting in his bedgown 
and nightcap, with his letters round him. 

“Mr. David,” said he, “I have a piece of news for 
you. It concerns some friends of yours, of whom [I 
sometimes think you are a little ashamed, for you have 
never referred to their existence.” 

I suppose I blushed. 

“JT see you understand, since you make the answering 
signal,” said he. “And I must compliment you on your 
excellent taste in beauty. But do you know, Mr. 
David, this seems to me a very enterprising lass? She 
crops up from every side. The Government of Scot- 
land appears unable to proceed for Mistress Katrine 
Drummond, which was somewhat the case (no great 
while back) with a certain Mr. David Balfour. Should 
not these make a good match? Her first intromission 
in politics—but I must not tell you that story, the 
authorities have decided you are to hear it otherwise 
and from a livelier narrator. This new example is 
more serious, however; and I am afraid I must alarm 
you with the intelligence that she is now in prison.” 

I cried out. 

“Yes,” said he, “the little lady is in prison. But I 
would not have you to despair. Unless you (with your 
friends and memorials) shall procure my downfall, she 
is to suffer nothing.” 


172 DAVID BALFOUR 


“But what has she done? What is her offence?” 
I cried. 

“It might be almost construed a high treason,” he 
returned, “for she has broke the King’s Castle of Edin- 
burgh.” 

“The lady is much my friend,” I said. “I know you 
would not mock me if the thing were serious.” 

“And yet it is serious in a sense,” said he; “for this 
rogue of a Katrine—or Cateran, as we may call her— 
has set adrift again upon the world that very doubtful 
character, her papa.’ 

Here was one of my previsions justified: J ames More 
was once again at liberty. He had lent his men to 
keep me a prisoner; he had volunteered his testimony 
in the Appin case, and the same (no matter by what 
subterfuge) had been employed to influence the jury. 
Now came his reward, and he was free. It might 
please the authorities to give to it the colour of an 
escape; but I knew better—I knew it must be the 
fulfilment of a bargain. The same course of thought 
relieved me of the least alarm for Catriona. She might 
be thought to have broke prison for her father; she 
might have believed so herself. But the chief hand in 
the whole business was that of Prestongrange! and I 
was sure, so far from letting her come to punishment, 
he would not suffer her to be even tried. Whereupon 
thus came out of me the not very politic ejaculation: 

“Ah! I was expecting that!” 

“You have at times a great deal of discretion too!” 
says Prestongrange. 

“And what is my lord pleased to mean by that?” 
I asked. 

“T was just marvelling,” he replied, “that being so 
clever as to draw these inferences, you should not be 
clever enough to keep them to yourself. But I think 
you would like to hear the details of the affair. I 
have received two versions: and the least official is the 
more full and far the more entertaining, being from 
the lively pen of my eldest daughter. ‘Here is all the 


THE TER’D BALL 173 


town bizzing with a fine piece of work,’ she writes, ‘and 
what would make the thing more noted (if it were only 
known) the malefactor is a protégée of his lordship my 
papa. I am sure your heart-is too much in your duty 
(if it were nothing else) to have forgotten Grey Eyes. 
What does she do, but get a broad hat with the flaps 
open, a long hairy-like man’s greatcoat, and a big 
gravatt; kilt her coats up to Gude kens whaur, clap two 
pair of boot-hose upon her legs, take a pair of clouted 
brogues* in her hand, and off to the Castle! Here 
she gives herself out to be a soutar* in the employ of 
James More; and gets admitted to his cell, the lieu- 
tenant (who seems to have been full of pleasantry) 
making sport among his soldiers of the soutar’s great- 
coat. Presently they hear disputation and the sound 
of blows inside. Out flies the cobbler, his coat flying, 
the flaps of his hat beat about his face, and the leu- 
tenant and his soldiers mock at him as he runs off. 
They laughed not so hearty the next time they had 
occasion to visit the cell, and found nobody but a tall, 
pretty, grey-eyed lass in the female habit! As for the 
cobbler, he was “over the hills ayont Dumblane,” and 
it’s thought that poor Scotland will have to console 
herself without him. I drank Catriona’s health this 
night in public. Indeed, the whole town admires her; 
and I think the beaux would wear bits of her garters 
in their button-holes if they could only get them. I 
would have gone to visit her in prison too, only I re- 
membered in time I was papa’s daughter; so wrote her 
a billet instead, which I entrusted to the faithful Doig, 
and I hope you will admit I can be political when 1 
please. The same faithful gomeral is to despatch this 
letter by the express along with those of the wiseacres, 
so that you may hear Tom Fool in company with 
Solomon. Talking of gomerals, do tell Dawwt Balfour. 
I would I could see the face of him at the thought of 
a long-legged lass in such a predicament! to say noth- 
ing of the levities of your affectionate daughter, and his 


*Patched shoes. * Shoemaker. 


174 DAVID BALFOUR 


respectful friend.2 So my _ rascal signs herself!” 
continued Prestongrange. ‘And you see, Mr. David, it 
is quite true what I tell you, that my daughters regard 
you with the most affectionate playfulness.” 

“The gomeral is much obliged,” said I. 

“And was not this prettily done?” he went on. “Is 
not this Highland maid a piece of a heroine?” 

“T was always sure she had a great heart,” said I. 
“And I wager she guessed nothing . . . But I beg 
your pardon, this is to tread upon forbidden subjects.” 

“T will go bail she did not,” he returned, quite openly. 
“TJ will go bail she thought she was flying’straight into 
King George’s face.” 

Remembrance of Catriona, and the thought of her 
lying in captivity, moved me strangely. I could see 
that even Prestongrange admired, and could not with- 
hold his lips from smiling when he considered her be- 
haviour. As for Miss Grant, for all her ill habit of 
mockery, her admiration shone out plain. A kind of a 
heat came on me. 

“JT am not your lordship’s daughter . . .’ I began. 

“That I know of!” he put in smiling. 

“TI speak like a fool,” said I; “or rather I began 
wrong. It would doubtless be unwise in Mistress 
Grant to go to her in prison; but for me, I think I 
would look like a half-hearted friend if I did not fly - 
there instantly.” 

“So-ho, Mr. David,” says he; “I thought that you 
and I were in a bargain?” 

‘My lord,” I said, “when I made that bargain I 
was a good deal affected by your goodness, but I'll 
never can deny that I was moved besides by my own 
interest. There was self-seeking in my heart, and 1 
think shame of it now. It may be for your lordship’s 
safety to say this fashious Davie Balfour is your friend 
and housemate. Say it then; I’ll never contradict you. 
But as for your patronage, I give it all back. I ask 
but the one thing—let me go, and give me a pass to 
see her in her prison.” 


THE TEE’D BALL 175 


He looked at me with a hard eye. “You put the 
cart before the horse, I think,” says he. ‘That which 
I had given was a portion of my liking, which your 
thankless nature does not seem to have remarked. 
But for my patronage, it is not given, nor (to be exact) 
is it yet offered.” He paused a bit. “And I warn you, 
you do not know yourself,” he added. “Youth is a 
hasty season; you will think better of all this before 
& year.” 

“Well, and I would like to be that kind of youth!” 
I cried. “I have seen too much of the other party in 
these young advocates that fawn upon your lordship 
and are even at pains to fawn on me. And I have 
seen it in the old ones also. They are all for by-ends, 
the whole clan of them! It’s this that makes me seem 
to misdoubt your lordship’s liking. Why would I think 
that you would like me? But ye told me yourself ye 
had an interest!” 

I stopped at this, confounded that I had run so far; 
he was observing me with an unfathomable face. 

“My lord, I ask your pardon,” I resumed. “I have 
nothing in my chafts but a rough country tongue. I 
think it would be only decent-like if I would go to 
see my friend in her captivity; but I’m owing you my 
life—I’ll never forget that; and if it’s for your lord- 
ship’s good, here I’ll stay. That’s barely gratitude.” 

“This might have been reached in fewer words,” says 
Prestongrange grimly. “It is easy, and it is at times 
gracious, to say a plain Scots ‘ay.’” 

“Ah, but, my lord, I think ye take me not yet 
entirely!” cried I. “For your sake, for my life-safe, 
and the kindness that ye say ye bear to me—for these, 
T’ll consent; but not for any good that might be coming 
to myself. If I stand aside when this young maid 
is in her trial, it’s a thing I will be noways advantaged 
by; I will lose by it, I will never gain. I would rather 
make a shipwreck wholly than to build on that foun- 
dation.” 

He was a minute serious, then smiled. ‘You mind 


176 DAVID BALFOUR 


me of the man with the long nose,” said he; “was you 
to look at the moon by a telescope, you would see 
David Balfour there! But you shall have your way 
of it. I will ask you one service, and then set you 
free. My clerks are overdriven; be so good as copy 
me these few pages,” says he, visibly swithering among 
some huge rolls of manuscripts, “and when that is done, 
I shall bid you God-speed! I would never charge my- 
self with Mr. David’s conscience; and if you could 
cast some part of it (as you went by) in a moss hag, 
you would find yourself to ride much easier without 
rece 

“Perhaps not just entirely in the same direction 
though, my lord!” says I. 

“And you shall have the last word, too!” cries he 
gaily. 

Indeed he had some cause for gaiety, having now 
found the means to gain his purpose. To lessen the 
weight of the memorial, or to have a readier answer 
at his hand, he desired I should appear publicly in the 
character of his intimate. But if I were to appear with 
the same publicity as a visitor to Catriona in her 
prison the world would scarce stint to draw conclu- 
sions, and the true nature of James More’s escape 
must become evident to all. This was the little 
problem I had set him of a sudden, and to which he. 
had so briskly found an answer. I was to be tethered 
in Glasgow by that job of copying, which in mere out- 
ward decency I could not well refuse; and during these 
hours of my employment Catriona was privately got 
rid of. I think shame to write of this man that loaded 
me with so many goodnesses. He was kind to me as 
“0 father, yet I ever thought him as false as a cracked 

ell. 


CHAPTER XIX 
I AM MUCH IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES 


HE copying was a weary business, the more so 

as I perceived very early there was no sort of 
urgency in the matters treated, and began very early 
to consider my employment a pretext. I had no sooner 
finished, than I got to horse, used what remained of 
daylight to the best purpose, and being at last fairly 
benighted, slept in a house by Almond Waterside. 
I was in the saddle again before the day, and the 
Edinburgh booths were just opening when I clattered 
in by the West Bow and drew up a smoking horse at 
my lord Advocate’s door. I had a written word for 
Doig, my lord’s private hand that was thought to be 
in all his secrets—a worthy, little plain man, all fat 
and snuff and self-sufficiency. Him I found already at 
his desk and already bedabbled with maccabaw, in 
the same ante-room where I rencountered with James 
More. He read the note scrupulously through like a 
chapter in his Bible. 

“H’m,” says he; “ye come a wee thing ahint-hand, 
Mr. Balfour. The bird’s flaen—we hae letten her out.” 

“Miss Drummond is set free?” I cried. 

“Achy!” said he. ‘What would we keep her for, 
ye ken? To hae made a steer about the bairn would 
hae pleased naebody.” 

“And where’ll she be now?” says I. 

“Gude kens!” says Doig, with a shrug. 

Re have gone to Lady Allardyce, I’m thinking,” 
said I, 

“That'll be it,” said he. 

“Then I'll gang there pire Nb says I. 

: 17 


178 DAVID BALFOUR 


“But ye’ll be for a bite or ye go?” said he. 

“Neither bite nor sup,” said I. “I had a good 
waucht of milk in by Ratho.” 

“Aweel, aweel,” says Doig. “But ye’ll can leave 
your horse here and your bags, for it seems we're to 
have your up-put.” 

“Na, na,” said I. “Tamson’s mear* would never 
be the thing for me this day of all days.” 

Doig speaking somewhat broad, I had been led by 
imitation into an accent much more countrified than 
I was usually careful to affect—a good deal broader 
indeed than I have written it down; and I was the more 
ashamed when another voice joined in behind me with 
a scrap of a ballad: 


“Gae saddle me the bonny black, 
Gae saddle sune and mak’ him ready, 
Far I will down the Gatehope-slack, 
And a’ to see my bonny leddy.” 


The young lady, when I turned to her, stood in a 
morning gown, and her hands muffled in the same, as if 
to hold me at a distance. Yet I could not but think 
there was kindness in the eye with which she saw me. 

“My best respects to you, Mistress Grant,” said 
I, bowing. 

“The like to yourself, Mr. David,” she replied, with 
a deep curtsey. ‘And I beg to remind you of an old. 
musty saw, that meat and mass never hindered man. 
The mass I cannot afford you, for we are all good 
Protestants. But the meat I press on your attention. 
And I would not wonder but I could find something 
for your private ear that’ would be worth the stopping 
for.” 

“Mistress Grant,” said I, “I believe I am already 
your debtor for some merry words—and I think they 
were kind too—on a piece of unsigned paper.” 

“UWnsigned paper?” says she, and made a droll face, 


*'Tamson’s mare—to go afoot. 


IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES 179 


which was likewise wondrous beautiful, as of one try- 
ing to remember. 

“Or else I am the more deceived,” I went on. “But 
to be sure, we shall have the time to speak of these, 
since your father is so good as to make me for a while 
your inmate; and the gomeral begs you at this time 
only for the favour of his liberty.” 

“You give yourself hard names,” said she. 

“Mr. Doig and I would be blithe to take harder at 
your clever pen,” says I. 

“Once more I have to admire the discretion of all 
men-folk,” she replied. ‘But if you will not eat, off 
with you at once; you will be back the sooner, for you 
go on a fool’s errand. Off with you, Mr. David,” she 
continued, opening the door. 


“He has lowpen on his bonny grey, 
He rade the richt gate and the ready; 

I trow he would neither stint nor stay, 
Far he was seeking his bonny leddy.” 


I did not wait to be twice bidden, and did justice 
to Miss Grant’s citation on the way to Dean. 

Old Lady Allardyce walked there alone in the 
garden, in her hat and mutch, and having a silver- 
mounted staff of some black wood to lean upon. As 
I alighted from my horse, and drew near to her with 
congees, I could see the blood come in her face, and 
her head fling into the air like what I had conceived 
of empresses. 

“What brings you to my poor door?” she cried, 
speaking high through her nose. “I cannot bar it. The 
males of my house are dead and buried; I have neither 
son, nor husband to stand in the gate for me; any 
beggar can pluck me by the baird *—and a baird there 
is, and that’s the worst of it yet!” she added, partly 
to herself. 

I was extremely put out at this reception, and the 


* Beard. 


180 DAVID BALFOUR 


last remark, which seemed like a daft wife’s, left me 
near-hand speechless. | 

“T see I have fallen under your displeasure, ma’am,” 
said I. “Yet I will still be so bold as ask after Mistress 
Drummond.” 

She considered me with a burning eye, her lips 
pressed close together into twenty creases, her hand 
shaking on her staff. ‘This cows all!” she cried. “Ye 
come to me to speir for her? Would God I knew!” 

“She is not here?” I cried. 

She threw up her chin and made a step and a cry 
at me, so that I fell back incontinent. 

“Out upon your leeing throat!” she cried. “What! 
ye come and speir at me! She’s in jyle, whaur ye 
took her to—that’s all there is to it. And of a’ the 
beings ever I beheld in breeks, to think it should be 
you! Ye timmer scoun’rel, if I had a male left to my 
name I would have your jaicket dustit till ye raired.” 

I thought it not good to delay longer in that place, 
because I remarked her passion to be rising. As I 
turned to the horse-post she even followed me; and I 
made no shame to confess that I rode away with the 
one stirrup on and scrambling for the other. 

As I knew no other quarter where I could push my 
inquiries, there was nothing left me but to return 
to the Advocate’s. I was well received by the four 
ladies, who were now in company together, and must 
give the news of Prestongrange and what word went in 
the west country, at the most inordinate length and 
with great weariness to myself; while all the time that 
young lady, with whom I so much desired to be alone 
again, observed me quizzically and seemed to find 
pleasure in the sight of my impatience. At last, after 
I had endured a meal with them, and was come very 
near the point of appealing for an interview before her 
aunt, she went and stood by the music-case, and 
picking out a tune, sang to it in a high key—“He that 
will not when he may, When he will he shall have nay.” 
But this was the end of her rigours, and presently, 


IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES 181 


after making some excuse of which I have no mind, she 
carried me away in private to her father’s library. I 
should not fail to say that she was dressed to the 
nines, and appeared extraordinary handsome. 

“Now, Mr. David, sit ye down here and let us have 
a two-handed crack,” said she. “For I have much to 
tell you, and it appears besides that I have been 
grossly unjust to your good taste.” 

“In what manner, Mistress Grant!” I asked. “I 
trust I have never seemed to fail in due respect.” 

“T will be your surety, Mr. David,” said she. ‘Your 
respect, whether to yourself or your poor neighbours, 
has been always and most fortunately beyond imi- 
tation. But that is by the question. You got a note. 
from me?” she asked. 

“T was so bold as to suppose so upon inference,” said 
I, “and it was kindly thought upon.” 

“Tt must have prodigiously surprised you,” said she. 
“but let us begin with the beginning. You have not 
perhaps forgot a day when you were so kind as to 
escort three very tedious misses to Hope Park? I have 
the less cause to forget it myself, because you was so 
particular obliging as to introduce me to some of the 
principles of the Latin grammar, a thing which wrote 
itself profoundly on my gratitude.” 

“T fear I was sadly pedantical,”’ said I, overcome 
with confusion at the memory. “You are only to con- 
sider 1 am quite unused with the society of ladies.” 

“T will say the less about the grammar then,” she 
replied. “But how came you to desert your charge? 
‘He has thrown her out, overboard his ain, dear 
Annie!’”” she hummed; “and his ain dear Annie and 
her two sisters had to taigle home by theirselves like a 
string of green geese! It seems you returned to my 
papa’s, where you showed yourself excessively martial, 
and then on to realms unknown, with an eye (it ap- 
pears) to the Bass Rock; solan geese being perhaps 
more to your mind than bonny lasses.” 

Through all this raillery there was something 


182 DAVID BALFOUR 


indulgent in the lady’s eye which made me suppose 
there might be better coming. 

“You take a pleasure to torment me,” said I, “and 
I make a very feckless plaything; but let me ask you 
to be more merciful. At this time there is but the 
one thing that I care to hear of, and that will be news 
of Catriona.” 

“Do you call her by that name to her face, Mr. 
Balfour?” she asked. 

“In troth, and I am not very sure,” I stammered. 

“IT would not do so in any case to strangers,” said 
Miss Grant. “And why are you so much immersed 
in the affairs of this young lady?” 

“Tt heard she was in prison,” said I. 

“Well, and now you hear that she is out of it,” she 
replied, “and what more would you have? She has no 
need of any further champion.” 

“T may have the greater need of her, ma’am,” said I. 

“Come, this is better!” says Miss Grant. “But look 
me fairly in the face; am I not bonnier than she?” 

“T would be the last to be denying it,” said I. “There 
is not your marrow in all Scotland.” 

“Well, here you have the pick of the two at your 
hand, and must needs speak of the other,” said she. 
“This is never the way to please the ladies, Mr. Bal- 
four.” . 

“But, mistress,” said I, “there are surely other things 
besides mere beauty.” 

“By which I am to understand that I am no better 
than I should be, perhaps?” she asked. 

“By which you will please understand that I am 
like the cock in the midden in the fable book,” said 
I. “I see the braw jewel—and I like fine to see it too— 
but I have more need of the pickle corn.” 

“Bravissimo!” she cried. There is a word well said 
at last, and I will reward you for it with my story. 
That same night of your desertion I came late from a 
friend’s house—where I was excessively admired, what- 
ever you may think of it—and what should I hear but 


IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES 183 


that a lass in a tartan screen desired to speak with 
me? She had been there an hour or better, said the 
servant-lass, and she grat in to herself as she sat wait 
ing. I went to her direct; she rose as I came in, and 
I knew her at a look. ‘Grey Eyes!’ says I to myself, 
but was more wise than to let on. You will be Miss 
Grant at last? she says, rising and looking at me hard 
and pitiful. Ay, it was true he said, you are bonny 
at all events —The way God made me, my dear, I said, 
but I would be gey and obliged if ye could tell me 
what brought you here at such a time of the night— 
Lady, she said, we are kinsfolk, we are both come of 
the blood of the sons of Alpin—My dear, I replied, 
I think no more of Almn or his sons than what I do 
of a kalestock. You have a better argument in these 
tears upon your bonny face. And at that I was so 
weak-minded as to kiss her, which is what you would 
like to do dearly, and I wager will never find the 
courage of. I say it was weak-minded of me, for | 
knew no more of her than the outside; but it was the 
wisest stroke I could have hit upon. She is a very 
staunch, brave nature, but I think she has been little 
used with tenderness; and at that caress (though to 
say the truth, it was but lightly given) her heart went 
out to me. I will never betray the secrets of my sex, 
Mr. Davie; I will never tell you the way she turned 
me round her thumb, because it is the same she will 
use to twist yourself. Ay, it is a fine lass! She is as 
clean as hill well-water.” 

“She is e’en’t!” I cried. 

“Well, then, she told me her concerns,” pursued Miss 
Grant, “and in what a swither she was in about her 
papa, and what a taking about yourself, with very 
little cause, and in what a perplexity she had found 
herself after you was gone away. And then I minded 
at long last, says she, that we were kinswomen, and 
that Mr. David should have given you the name of 
the bonniest of the bonny, and I was thinking to my- 
self ‘If she ts so bonny she will be good at all events’; 


184 DAVID BALFOUR 


and I took up my foot soles out of that. That was 
when I forgave yourself, Mr. Davie. When you was in 
my society, you seemed upon hot iron: by all marks, 
if ever I saw a young man that wanted to be gone, 
it was yourself, and I and my two sisters were the 
ladies you were so desirous to be gone from; and now 
it appeared you had given me some notice in the by- 
going, and was so kind as to comment on my attrac- 
tions! From that hour you may date our friendship, 
and I began to think with tenderness upon the Latin 
grammar.” 

“You will have many hours to rally me in,” said I; 
“and I think besides you do yourself injustice. I 
think it was Catriona turned your heart in my direc- 
tion. She is too simple to perceive as you do the stiff- 
ness of her friend.” 

“T would not like to wager upon that, Mr. David,” 
said she. “The lasses have clear eyes. But at least 
she is your friend entirely, as I was to see. I carried 
her in to his lordship my papa; and his Advocacy, 
being in a favourable stage of claret, was so good 
as to receive the pair of us. Here is Grey Eyes that 
you have deaved with these days past, said I, she is 
come to prove that we spoke true, and I lay the 
prettiest lass in the three Lothians at your feet— 
making a papistical reservation of myself. She suited 
her action to my words; down she went upon her knees 
to him—I would not like to swear but he saw two of 
her, which doubtless made her appeal the more irre- 
sistible, for you are all a pack of Mahomedans—told 
him what had passed that night, and how she had with- 
held her father’s man from following you, and what a 
case she was in about her father, and what a flutter 
for yourself; and begged with weeping for the lives of 
both of you (neither of which was in the slightest 
danger), till I vow I was proud of my sex because it 
was done so pretty, and ashamed of it because of the 
smallness of the occasion. She had not gone far, I 


IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES 185 


assure you, before the Advocate was wholly sober, to 
see his inmost politics ravelled out by a young lass 
and discovered to the most unruly of his daughters. 
But we took him in hand, the pair of us, and brought 
that matter straight. Properly managed—and that 
means managed by me—there is no one to compare 
with my papa.” 

“He has been a good man to me,” said I. 

“Well, he was a good man to Katrine, and I was 
there to. see to it,”’ said she. 

“And she pled for me!” say I. 

“She did that, and very movingly,” said Miss Grant. 
“T would not like to tell you what she said—I find you 
vain enough already.” 

“God reward her for it!” eried I. 

“With Mr. David Balfour, I suppose?” says she. 

“You do me too much injustice at the last!” I cried. 
“{ would tremble to think of her in such hard hands. 
Do you think I would presume, because she begged my 
life? She would do that for a new whelped puppy! 
I have had more than that to set me up, if you but 
ken’d. She kissed that hand of mine. Ay, but she 
did. And why? because she thought I was playing a 
brave part and might be going to my death. It was 
not for my sake—but I need not be telling that to you, 
that cannot look at me without laughter. It was for 
the love of what she thought was bravery. I believe 
there is none but me and poor Prince Charlie had 
that honour done them. Was this not to make a god 
of me? and do you not think my heart would quake 
when I remember it?” 

“T do laugh at you a good deal, and a good deal 
more than is quite civil,” said she; “but I will tell 
you one thing: if you speak to her like that, you have 
some glimmerings of a chance.” 

“Me?” I cried, “I would never dare. I can speak 
to you, Miss Grant, because it’s a matter of indifference 
what ye think of me. But her? no fear!” said I. 


186 DAVID BALFOUR 


“TI think you have the largest feet in all broad 
Scotland,” says she. 

“Troth, they are no very small,” said I, looking 
down. 

“Ah, poor Catriona!” cried Miss Grant. 

And I could but stare upon her; for though I now 
see very well what she was driving at (and perhaps 
some justification for the same), I was never swift at 
the up-take in such flimsy talk. 

“Ah well, Mr. David,” she said, “it goes sore against 
my conscience, but I see I shall have to be your speak- 
ing board. She shall know you came to her straight 
upon the news of her imprisonment; she shall know 
you would not pause to eat; and of our conversation 
she shall hear just so much as I think convenient for a 
maid of her age and experience. Believe me, you will 
be in that way much better served than you could 
serve yourself, for I will keep the big feet out of the 
platter.” 

“You know where she is, then?” I exclaimed. 

“That I do, Mr. David, and will never tell,” said she. 

“Why not?” I asked. 

“Well,”’ she said, “I am a good friend, as you will 
soon discover; and the chief of those that I am friend 
to is my papa. I assure you, you will never heat nor 
melt me out of that, so you may spare me your sheep’s 
eyes; and adieu to your David-Balfourship for the 
now.” 

“But there is yet one thing more,” I cried. “There 
is one thing that must be stopped, being mere ruin to 
herself, and to me too.” 

“Well,” she said, “be brief; I have spent half the 
day on you already.” 

“My Lady Allardyce believes,” I began—“she sup- 
poses—she thinks that I abducted her.” 

The colour came into Miss Grant’s face, so that at 
first I was quite abashed to find her ear so delicate, till 
I bethought me she was struggling rather with mirth, 


IN THE HANDS OF THE LADIES 187 


a notion in which I was altogether confirmed by the 
shaking of her voice as she replied— 

“T will take up the defence of your reputation,’ 
she. “You may leave it in my hands.” 

And with that she withdrew out of the library. 


’ said 


CHAPTER XX 
I CONTINUE TO MOVE IN GOOD SOCIETY 


OR about exactly two months I remained a guest 
in Prestongrange’s family, where I bettered my 
acquaintance with the bench, the bar, and the flower 
of Edinburgh company. You are not to suppose my 
education was neglected; on the contrary, I was kept 
extremely busy. I studied the French, so as to be 
more prepared to go to Leyden; I set myself to fencing, 
and wrought hard, sometimes three hours in the day, 
with notable advancement; at the suggestion of my 
cousin, Pilrig, who was an apt musician, I was put to 
a singing class; and by the orders of my Miss Grant, 
to one for the dancing, at which I must say I proved 
far from ornamental. However, all were good enough 
to say it gave me an address a little more genteel; and 
there is no question but I learned to manage my coat- 
skirts and sword with more dexterity, and to stand 
in a room as though the same belonged to me. My 
clothes themselves were all earnestly re-ordered; and 
the most trifling circumstances, such as where I should 
tie my hair, or the colour of my ribbon, debated among 
the three misses like a thing of weight. One way with 
another, no doubt I was a good deal improved to look 
at, and acquired a bit of a modish air that would have 
surprised the good folks at Hssendean. 
The two younger misses were very willing to discuss 
a point of my habiliment, because that was in the 
line of their chief thoughts. I cannot say that they 
appeared any other way conscious of my presence; 
.and though always more than civil, with a kind of 
heartless cordiality, could not hide how much I wearied 
188 


IN GOOD SOCIETY 189 


them. As for the aunt, she was a wonderful still 
woman; and I think she gave me much the same at- 
tention as she gave the rest of the family, which was 
little enough. The eldest daughter and the Advocate 
himself were thus my principal friends, and our fa- 
miliarity was much increased by a pleasure that we 
took in common. Before the court met we spent a 
day or two at the house of Grange, living very nobly 
with an open table, and here it was that we three began 
to ride out together in the fields, a practice afterwards 
maintained in Edinburgh, so far as the Advocate’s 
continual affairs permitted. When we were put in a 
good frame by the briskness of the exercise, the diffi- 
culties of the way, or the accidents of bad weather, my 
shyness wore entirely off; we forgot that we were 
strangers, and speech not being required, it flowed the 
more naturally on. Then it was that they had my 
story from me, bit by bit, from the time that I left 
ssendean, with my voyage and battle in the Covenant, 
wanderings in the heather, etc.; and from the interest 
{hey found in my adventures sprung the circumstance 
of a jaunt we made a little later on, on a day when 
the courts were not sitting, and of which I will tell 
a trifle more at length. 

We took horse early, and passed first by the house 
of Shaws, where it stood smokeless in a great field of 
white frost, for it was yet early in the day. Here 
Prestongrange alighted down, gave me his horse, and 
proceeded alone to visit my uncle. My heart, I re- 
member, swelled up bitter within me at the sight of 
that bare house and the thought of the old miser 
sitting chittering within in the cold kitchen. 

“There is my home,” said I; “and my family.” 

“Poor David Balfour!” said Miss Grant. 

What passed during the visit I have never heard; but 
it would doubtless not be very agreeable to Ebenezer, 
for when the Advocate came forth again his face was 
dark. 

“J think you will soon be the laird indeed, Mr. 


190 DAVID BALFOUR 


Davie,” says he, turning half about with the one foot in 
the stirrup. 

“T will never pretend sorrow,” said I; and, to say 
the truth, during his absence Miss Grant and I had 
been embellishing the place in fancy with plantations, 
parterres, and a terrace—much as I have since carried 
out in fact. 

Thence we pushed to the Queen’s Ferry, where Ran- 
keillor gave us a good welcome, being indeed out of 
the body to receive so great a visitor. Here the Advo- 
cate was so unaffectedly good as to go quite fully 
over my affairs, sitting perhaps two hours with the 
Writer in his study, and expressing (I was told) a 
great esteem for myself and concern for my fortunes. 
To while this time, Miss Grant and I and voung 
Rankeillor took boat and passed the Hope to Lime- 
kilns. Rankeillor made himself very ridiculous (and, 
I thought, offensive) with his admiration for the young 
lady, and to my wonder (only it is so common a weak- 
ness of her sex) she seemed, if anything, to be a little 
gratified. One use it had: for when we were come 
to the other side, she laid her commands on him to 
mind the boat, while she and I passed a little further 
to the alehouse. This was her own thought, for she 
had been taken with my account of Alison Hastie, and 
desired to see the lass herself. We found her once 
more alone—indeed, I believe her father wrought all 
day in the fields—and she curtsied dutifully to the 
pty fox and the beautiful young lady in the riding- 
coat. 

“Is that all the welcome I am to get?” said I, holding 
out my hand. “And have you no more memory of 
old friends?” 

“Keep me! wha’s this of it?” she cried, and then, 
“God’s truth, it’s the tautit’* laddie!” 

“The very same,” says I. 

“Mony’s the time I’ve thocht upon you and your 
freen, and blithe am I to see in your braws,” she cried. 

* Ragged. *Fine things. 


IN GOOD SOCIETY 191 


“Though I kent ye were come to your ain folk by the 
grand present that ye sent me and that I thank ye 
for with a’ my heart.” 

“There,” said Miss Grant to me, “run out by with 
ye, like a good bairn. I didnae come here to stand and 
haud a candle; it’s her and me that are to crack.” 

I suppose she stayed ten minutes in the house, but 
when she came forth I observed two things—that her 
eyes were reddened, and a silver brooch was gone out 
of her bosom. This very much affected me. 

“T never saw you so well adorned,” said I. 

“Q Davie man, dinna be a pompous gowk!” said 
she, and was more than usually sharp to me the re- 
mainder of the day. 

_About candlelight we came home from this excur- 
sion. | 

For a good while I heard nothing further of Catriona 
—my Miss Grant remaining quite impenetrable, and 
stopping my mouth with pleasantries. At last, one 
day that she returned from walking and found me 
alone in the parlour over my French, I thought there 
was something unusual in her looks; the colour height- 
ened, the eyes sparkling high, and a bit of a smile 
continually bitten in as she regarded me. She seemed 
indeed like the very spirit of mischief, and, walking 
briskly in the room, had soon involved me in a kind of 
quarrel over nothing and (at the least) with nothing 
intended on my side. I was like Christian in the 
slough—the more I tried to clamber out upon the side, 
the deeper I became involved; until at last I heard her 
declare, with a great deal of passion, that she would 
take that answer at the hands of none, and I must 
down upon my knees for pardon. 

The causelessness of all this fuff stirred my own bile. 
“J have said nothing you can properly object to,” said 
I. “and as for my knees, that is an attitude I keep for 

30d.” 

“And as a goddess I am to be served!” she cried, 
shaking her brown locks at me and with a bright 


192 DAVID BALFOUR 


colour. “Every man that comes within waft of my 
petticoats shall use me so!” 

“T will go so far as ask your pardon for the fashion’s 
sake, although I vow I know not why,” I replied. “But 
for these play-acting postures, you can go to others.” 

“OQ Davie!” she said. “Not if I was to beg you?” 

I bethought me I was fighting with a woman, which 
is the same as to say a child, and that upon a point 
entirely formal. 

“T think it a bairnly thing,” I said, “not worthy in 
you to ask, or me to render. Yet I will not refuse you, 
neither,” said I; ‘‘and the stain, if there be any, rests 
with yourself.” And at that I kneeled fairly down. 

“There!” she cried. ‘There is the proper station, 
there is where I have been manceuvring to bring you.” 
And then, suddenly, “Kep,’”” said she, flung me a folded 
billet, and ran from the apartment laughing. 

The billet had neither place nor date. “Dear Mr. 
David,” it began, “I get your news continually by my 
cousin, Miss Grant, and it is a pleisand hearing. I am 
very well, in a good place, among good folk, but neces- 
sitated to be quite private, though I am hoping that 
at long last we may meet again. All your friendships 
have been told me by my loving cousin, who loves 
us both. She bids me to send you this writing, and 
oversees the same. I will be asking you to do all her 
commands, and rest your affectionate friend, Catriona 
Macegregor-Drummond. P.S.—Will you not see my 
cousin, Allardyce?” 

I think it not the least brave of my campaigns (as 
the soldiers say) that I should have done as I was 
here bidden and gone forthright to the house by Dean. 
But the old lady was now entirely changed and supple 
as a glove. By what means Miss Grant had brought 
this round I could never guess; I am sure, at least, 
she dared not to appear openly in the affair, for her 
papa was compromised in it pretty deep. It was he, 


7 Catch. 


IN GOOD SOCIETY 193 


indeed, who had persuaded Catriona to leave, or rather, 
not to return, to her cousin’s, placing her instead with 
a family of Gregorys—decent people, quite at the 
Advocate’s disposition, and in whom she might have 
the more confidence because they were of her own 
clan and family. These kept her private till all was 
ripe, heated and helped her to attempt her father’s 
rescue, and after she was discharged from prison re- 
ceived her again into the same secrecy. Thus Preston- 
grange obtained and used his instrument; nor did there 
leak out the smallest word of his acquaintance with 
the daughter of James More. There was some whisper- 
ing, of course, upon the escape of that discredited 
person; but the Government replied by a show of 
rigour, one of the cell porters was flogged, the lieu- 
tenant of the guard (my poor friend, Duncansby) was 
broken of his rank, and as for Catriona, all men were 
well enough pleased that her fault should be passed by 
in silence. 

I could never induce Miss Grant to carry back an 
answer. “No,” she would say, when I persisted, “I 
am going to keep the big feet out of the platter.” 
This was the more hard to bear, as 1 was aware she 
saw my little friend many times in the week, and 
carried my news whenever (as she said) I “had be- 
haved myself.” At last she treated me to what she 
called an indulgence, and I thought rather more of a 
banter. She was certainly a strong, almost a violent, 
friend to all she liked, chief among whom was a certain 
frail old gentlewoman, very blind and very witty, who 
dwelt in the top of a tall land on a strait close, with 
a nest of linnets in a cage, and thronged all day with 
visitors. Miss Grant was very fond to carry me there 
and put me to entertain her friend with the narrative of 
my misfortunes; and Miss Tibbie Ramsay (that was 
her name) was particular kind, and told me a great 
deal that was worth knowledge of old folks and past 
affairs in Scotland. I should say that from her 
chamber-window, and not three feet away, such is the 


194 DAVID BALFOUR 


straitness of that close, it was possible to look into a 
barred loophole lighting the stairway of the opposite 
house. 

Here, upon pretext, Miss Grant left me one day 
alone with Miss Ramsay. I mind I thought that lady 
inattentive and like one preoccupied. I was besides 
very uncomfortable, for the window, contrary to cus- 
tom, was left open and the day was cold. All at once 
the voice of Miss Grant sounded in my ears as irom a 
distance. 

“Here, Shaws!” she cried, “keek out of the window 
and see what I have broughten you.” 

I think it was the prettiest sight that ever I beheld. 
The well of the close was all in clear shadow where a 
man could see distinctly, the walls very black and 
dingy; and there from the barred loophole I saw two 
faces smiling across at me—Miss Grant’s and 
Catriona’s. | 

“There!” says Miss Grant, “I wanted her to see 
you in your braws like the lass of Limekilns. I wanted 
her to see what I could make of you, when I buckled 
te the job in earnest!” 

It came in my mind she had been more than common 
particular that day upon my dress: and I think that 
some of the same care had been bestowed upon 
Catriona. For so merry and sensible a lady, Miss 
Grant was certainly wonderful taken up with duds. 

“Catriona!” was all I could get out. 

As for her, she said nothing in the world, but only 
waved her hand and smiled to me, and was suddenly 
carried away again from before the loophole. 

That vision’ was no sooner lost than I ran to the 
house door, where I found I was locked in; thence back 
to Miss Ramsay, crying for the key, but might as 
well have cried upon the castle rock. She had passed 
her word, she said, and I must be a good lad. It was 
impossible to burst the door, even if it had been 
mannerly; it was impossible I should leap from the 
window, being seven storeys above ground. All I 


IN GOOD SOCIETY 195 


could do was to crane over the close and watch for 
their reappearance from the stair. It was little to 
see, being no more than the tops of their two heads 
each on a ridiculous bobbin of skirts, like to a pair of 
pin-cushions. Nor did Catriona so much as look up for 
a farewell; being prevented (as I heard afterwards) 
by Miss Grant, who told her folk were never seen to 
less advantage than from above downward. 

On the way home, as soon as I was set free, I up- 
braided Miss Grant with her cruelty. 

“T am sorry you was disappointed,” says she de- 
murely. ‘For my part I was very pleased. You 
looked better than I dreaded; you looked—if it will not 
make you vain—a mighty pretty young man when you 
appeared in the window. You are to remember that 
she could not see your feet,” says she, with the manner 
of one reassuring me. 

“O!” cried I, “leave my feet be—they are no bigger 
than my neighbour’s.” 

“They are even smaller than some,” said she, “but 
I speak in parables like a Hebrew prophet.” 

“YT marvel little they were sometimes stoned!” says 
tT. “But, you miserable girl, how could you do it? 
Why should you care to tantalise me with a moment?” 

“Tove is like folk,” says she; “it needs some kind 
of vivers.”* 

“OQ, Barbara, let me see her properly!” I pleaded. 
“You can—you see her when you please; let me have 
half an hour.” 

“Who is it that is managing this love affair? You? 
Or me?” she asked, and as I continued to press her 
with my instances, fell back upon a deadly ex- 
pedient: that of imitating the tones of my voice when 
I called on Catriona by name; with which, indeed, 
she held me in subjection for some days to follow. 

There was never the least word heard of the me- 
morial, or none by me. Prestongrange and his grace 


* Victuals. 


196 DAVID BALFOUR 


the Lord President may have heard of it (for what I 
know) on the deafest sides of their heads; they kept 
it to themselves, at least—the public was none the 
wiser; and in course of time, on November 8th, and in 
the midst of a prodigious storm of wind and rain, poor 
James of the Glens was duly hanged at Lettermore 
by Ballachulish. 

So there was the final upshot of my politics! In-- 
nocent men have perished before James, and are like 
to keep on perishing (in spite of all our wisdom) till 
the end of time. And till the end of time young folk 
(who are not yet used with the duplicity of life and 
men) will struggle as I did, and make heroical re- 
solves, and take long risks; and the course of events 
will push them upon the one side and go on like a 
marching army. James was hanged; and here was I 
dwelling in the house of Prestongrange, and grateful 
to him for his fatherly attention. He was hanged; and 
behold! when I met Mr. Simon in the causeway, I was 
fain to pull off my beaver to him like a good little 
boy before his dominie. He had been hanged by fraud 
and violence, and the world wagged along, and there 
was not a pennyweight of difference; and the villains of 
that horrid plot were decent, kind, respectable fathers 
of families, who went to kirk and tock the sacrament! 

But I had had my view of that detestable business 
they call politics—I had seen it from behind, when it 
is all bones and blackness; and I was cured for life 
of any temptations to take part in it again. A plain, 
quiet, private path was that which I was ambitious 
to walk in, when I might keep my head out of the way 
of dangers and my conscience out of the road of 
temptation. For, upon a retrospect, it appeared I had 
not done so grandly, after all; but with the greatest 
possible amount of big speech and preparation, had ac- 
complished nothing. 

The 25th of the same month a ship was advertised 
to sail from Leith; and I was suddenly recommended 
to make up my mails for Leyden. To Prestongrange 


IN GOOD SOCIETY 197 


I could, of course, say nothing; for I had already been 
a long while sorning on his house and table. But with 
his daughter I was more open, bewailing my fate that 
I should be sent out of the country, and assuring her, 
unless she should bring me to farewell with Catriona, 
I would refuse at the last hour. 

“Have I not given you my advice?” she asked. 

“TI know you have,” said J, “and I know how much 
I am beholden to you already, and that I am bidden to 
obey your orders. But you must confess you are 
something too merry a lass at times to lippen’ to en- 
tirely.” 

“I will tell you, then,” said she. “Be you on board 
by nine o’clock forenoon; the ship does not sail before 
one; keep your boat alongside; and if you are not 
pleased with my farewells when I shall send them, 
her can come ashore again and seek Katrine for your- 
self.” 

Since I could make no more of her, I was fain to be 
content with this. 

The day came round ait last when she and I were to 
separate. We had been extremely intimate and fa- 
miliar; J was much in her debt; and what way we were 
to part was a thing that put me from my sleep, like 
the veils I was to give to the domestic servants. I 
knew she considered me too backward, and rather de- 
sired to rise in her opinion on that head. Besides 
which, after so much affection shown and (I believe) 
felt upon both sides, it would have looked cold-like to 
be anyways stiff. Accordingly, I got my courage up 
and my words ready, and the last chance we were like 
to be alone, asked pretty boldly to be allowed to salute 
her in farewell. 

“You forget yourself strangely, Mr. Balfour,” said 
she. “I cannot call to mind that I have given you any 
right to presume on our acquaintancy.” 

I stood before her like a stopped clock, and knew not 


2 Trust. 


198 DAVID BALFOUR 


what to think, far less to say, when of a sudden she 
cast her arms about my neck and kissed me with the 
best will in the world. 

“You inimitable bairn!” she cried. ‘Did you think 
that I would let us part like strangers? Because I 
can never keep my gravity at you five mmutes on end, 
you must not dream I do not love you very well: I 
am all love and laughter, every time I cast an eye on 
you! And now I will give you an advice to conclude 
your education, which you will have need of before 
it’s very long. Never ask women-folk. They’re bound 
to answer ‘No’; God never made the lass that could 
resist the temptation. It’s supposed by divines to be 
the curse of Eve: because she did not say it when the 
devil offered her the apple, her daughters can say 
nothing else.” 

“Since I am so soon to lose my bonny professor,” 
I began. 

“This is gallant, indeed,” says she curtseying. 

“__T would put the one question,’ I went on: “May 
I ask a lass to marry me?” 

“You think you could not marry her without?” she 
asked. “Or else get her to offer?” 

“You see you cannot be serious,” said I. 

“T shall be very serious in one thing, David,” said 
she: “I shall always be your friend.” 

As I got to my horse the next morning, the four 
ladies were all at that same window whence we had 
once looked down on Catriona, and all cried farewell 
and waved their pocket-napkins as I rode away. One 
out of the four I knew was truly sorry; and at the 
thought of that, and how I had come to the door three 
months ago for the first time, sorrow and gratitude 
made a confusion in my mind. 


BARTEL 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER 


re cy. eae 
teas f 


+r 


vt Bot ; 
iy . st . , 
ANCA 
' a Ns ’ At ” ti ' lhe 
wits y Mh $y), ki 
4 . 4 t 





CHAPTER XXI 
THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND 


HE ship lay at a single anchor, well outside the 

pier of Leith, so that all we passengers must come 

to it by the means of skiffs. This was very little 
troublesome, for the reason that the day was a flat 
calm, very frosty and cloudy, and with a low shifting 
fog upon the water. The body of the vessel was thus 
quite hid as I drew near, but the tall spars of her 
stood high and bright in a sunshine like the flickering 
of a fire. She proved to be a very roomy, commodious 
merchant, but somewhat blunt in the bows, and loaden 
extraordinary deep with salt, salted salmon, and fine 
white linen stockings for the Dutch. Upon my coming 
on board, the captain welcomed me—one Sang (out 
of Lesmahago, I believe), a very hearty, friendly tar- 
paulin of a man, but at the moment in rather of a 
bustle. There had no other of the passengers yet ap- 
peared, so that I was left to walk about upon the 
deck, viewing the prospect and wondering a good deal 
what these farewells should be which I was promised. 
All Edinburgh and the Pentland Hills glinted above 
me in a kind of smuisty brightness, now and again 
overcome with blots of cloud; of Leith there was no 
more than the tops of chimneys visible, and on the 
face of the water, where the haar’ lay, nothing at all. 
Out of this I was presently aware of a sound of oars 
pulling, and a little after (as if out of the smoke of a 
fire) a boat issued. There sat a grave man in the 
stern sheets, well muffled from the cold, and by his 


*Sea fog. 
201 


202 DAVID BALFOUR 


side a tall, pretty, tender figure of a maid that brought 
my heart to a stand. I had scarce the time to catch 
my breath in, and be ready to meet her, as she stepped 
upon the deck, smiling, and making my best bow, 
which was now vastly finer than some months before, 
when first I made it to her ladyship. No doubt we 
were both a good deal changed: she seemed to have 
shot up taller, like a young, comely tree. She had 
now a kind of pretty backwardness that became her 
well, as of one that regarded herself more highly and 
was fairly woman; and for another thing, the hand 
of the same magician had been at work upon the pair 
of us, and Miss Grant had made us both braw, if she 
could make but the one bonny. 

The same cry, in words not very different, came from 
both of us, that the other was come in compliment to 
say farewell, and then we perceived in a flash we were 
to ship together. 

“QO, why will not Baby have been telling me!” she 
cried; and then remembered a letter she had been 
given, on the condition of not opening it till she was 
well on board. Within was an enclosure for myself, 
and ran thus: 


“Dear Daviz,—What do you think of my farewell? 
and what do you say to your fellow-passenger? Did 
you kiss, or did you ask? I was about to have signed 
here, but that would leave the purport of my question 
doubtful; and in my own case J ken the answer. So 
fill up here with good advice. Do not be too blate,* 
and for God’s sake do not try to be too forward; 
nothing sets you worse. I am 

“Your affectionate friend and governess, | 
“BARBARA GRANT.” 


I wrote a word of answer and compliment on a leaf 
out of my pocketbook, and put it with another scratch 


* Bashful. 


THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND 203 


from Catriona, sealed the whole with my new signet 
of the Balfour arms, and despatched it by the hand of 
Prestongrange’s servant that still waited in my boat. 

Then we had time to look upon each other more at 
leisure, which we had not done for a piece of a minute 
before (upon a common impulse) we shook hands 
again. 

“Catriona!” said I. It seemed that was the first 
and last word of my eloquence. 

“You will be glad to see me again?” says she. 

“And I think that is an idle word,” said I. “We are 
too deep friends to make speech upon such trifles.” 

“Ts she fiot the girl of all the world?” she cried 
again. “I was never knowing such a girl, so honest 
and so beautiful.” 

“And yet she cared no more for Alpin than what she 
did for a kalestock,” said I. 

“Ah, she will say so indeed!” cries Catriona. “Yet 
it was for the name and the gentle kind blood that 
she took me up and was so good to me.” 

“Well, I will tell you why it was,” said I. ‘There 
are all sorts of people’s faces in this world. There is 
Barbara’s face, that everyone must look at and admire, 
and think her a fine, brave, merry girl. And then 
there is your face, which is quite different—I never 
knew how different till to-day. You cannot see your- 
self, and that 1s why you do not understand; but it 
was for the love of your face that she took you up 
and was so good to you. And everybody in the world 
would do the same.” 

“Everybody?” says she. 

“Every living soul!” said I. 

“Ah, then, that will be why the soldiers at the castle 
took me up!” she cried. 

“Barbara has been teaching you to catch me,” said I. 

“She will have taught me more than that at all 
events. She will have taught me a great deal about 
Mr. David—all the ill of him, and a little that was not 
so ill either, now and then,” she said, smiling. “She 


204 DAVID BALFOUR 


will have told me all there was of Mr. David, only 
just that he would sail upon this very same ship. And 
why it is you go?” 

I told her. 

“Ah; well,” said she, “we will be some days in 
company and then ({ suppose) good-bye for al- 
together! I go to meet my father at a place of the 
name of Helvoetsluys, and from there to France, to 
be exiles by the side of our chieftain.” 

I could say no more than just, “O!” the name of 
James More always drying up my very voice. 

She was quick to perceive it, and to guess some 
portion of my thought. 

“There is one thing I must be saying first of all, 
Mr. David,” said she. “I think two of my kinsfolk 
have not behaved to you altogether very well. And 
the one of them two is James More, my father, and 
the other is the Laird of Prestongrange. Preston- 
grange will have spoken by himself, or his daughter 
in the place pf him. But for James More, my father, 
I have this much to say: he lay shackled in a prison; 
he is a plain honest soldier and a plain Highland 
gentleman; what they would be after he would never 
be guessing; but if he had understood it was to be 
some prejudice to a young gentleman like yourself, 
he would have died first. And for the sake of all 
your friendships, I will be asking you to pardon my 
father for that same mistake.” 

“Catriona,” said I, “what that mistake was I do not 
care to know. I know but the one thing—that you 
went to Prestongrange and begged my life upon your 
knees. O, I ken well it was for your father that you 
went, but when you were there you pleaded for me 
also. It is a thing I cannot speak of. There are two 
things I cannot think of in to myself: and the one 
is your good words when you called yourself my little 
friend, and the other that you pleaded for my life. Let 
us never speak more we two, of pardon or offence.” 

We stood after that silent, Catriona looking on the 


THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND 205 


deck and I on her; and before there was more speech, 
a little wind having sprung up in the nor’-west, they 
began to shake out the sails and heave in upon the 
anchor. 

There were six passengers besides our two selves, 
which made of it a full cabin. Three were solid mer- 
chants out of Leith, Kirkcaldy, and Dundee, all en- 
gaged in the same adventure into High Germany. 
One was a Hollander returning; the rest worthy mer- 
chants’ wives, to the charge of one of whom Catriona 
was recommended. Mrs. Gebbie (for that was her 
name) was by great good fortune heavily incommoded 
by the sea, and lay day and night on the broad of her 
back. We were besides the only creatures at all young 
on board the Rose, except a white-faced boy that did 
my old duty to attend upon the table; and it came 
about that Catriona and I were left almost entirely 
to ourselves. We had the next seats together at the 
table, where I waited on her with extraordinary pleas- 
ure. On deck, I made her a soft place with my cloak; 
and the weather being singularly fine for that season, 
with bright frosty days and nights, a steady, gentle 
wind, and scarce a sheet started all the way through 
the North Sea, we sat there (only now and again walk- 
ing to and fro for warmth) from the first blink of the | 
sun till eight or nine at night under the clear stars. 
The merchants or Captain Sang would sometimes 
glance and smile upon us, or pass a merry word of 
two and give us the go-by again; but the most part 
of the time they were deep in herring and chintzes and 
linen, or in computations of the slowness of the pas- 
sage, and left us to our own concerns, which were 
very little important to any but ourselves. 

At the first, we had a great deal to say, and thought 
ourselves pretty witty; and I was at a little pains to 
be the beau, and she (I believe) to play the young 
lady of experience. But soon we grew plainer with 
each other. I laid aside my high, clipped English 
(what little there was of it) and forgot to make my 


206 DAVID BALFOUR 


Edinburgh bows and scrapes; she, upon her side, fell 
into a sort of kind familiarity; and we dwelt together 
like those of the same household, only (upon my side) 
with a more deep emotion. About the same time, the 
bottom seemed to fall out of our conversation, and 
neither one of us the less pleased. Whiles she would 
tell me old wives’ tales, of which she had a wonderful 
variety, many of them from my friend red-headed 
Niel. She told them very pretty, and they were pretty 
enough childish tales; but the pleasure to myself was 
in the sound of her voice, and the thought that she 
was telling and I listening. Whiles, again, we would 
sit entirely silent, not communicating even with a look, 
and tasting pleasure enough in the sweetness of that 
neighbourhood. I speak here only for myself. Of 
what was in the maid’s mind, [ am not very sure that 
ever [ asked myself; and what was in my own, I was 
afraid to consider. I need make no secret of it now, 
either to myself or to the reader: I was fallen totally 
in love. She came between me and the sun. She had 
grown suddenly taller, as I say, but with a wholesome 
srowth; she seemed all health, and lightness, and brave 
spirits; and I thought she walked like a young deer, 
and stood like a birch upon the mountains. It was 
enough for me to sit near by her on the deck; and I 
declare I scarce spent two thoughts upon the future, 
and was so well content with what I then enjoyed that 
I was never at the pains to imagine any further step; 
unless perhaps I would be sometimes tempted to take 
her hand in mine and hold it there. But I was too like 
a miser of what joys I had, and would venture nothing 
on a hazard. 

What we spoke was usually of ourselves or of each 
other, so that if anyone had been at so much pains as 
overhear us, he must have supposed us the most ego- 
tistical persons in the world. It befell one day when 
we were at this practice, that we came on a discourse 
of friends and friendship, and I think now that we 
were sailing near the wind. We said what a fine thing 


THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND 207 


friendship was, and how little we had guessed of it, 
and how it made life a new thing, and a thousand cov- 
ered things of the same kind that will have been said, 
since the foundation of the world, by young folk in 
the same predicament. Then we remarked upon the 
strangeness of that circumstance, that friends came to- 
gether in the beginning as if they were there for the 
first time, and yet each had been alive a good while, 
losing time with other people. 

“Tt is not much that I have done,” said she, ‘and 
I could be telling you the five-fifths of it in two-three 
words. It is only a girl I am, and what can befall a 
girl, at all events? But I went with the clan in the 
year 45. The men marched with swords and firelocks, 
and some of them in brigades in the same set of 
tartan; they were not backward at the marching, I can 
tell you. And there were gentlemen from the Low 
Country, with their tenants mounted and trumpets to 
sound, and there was a grand skirling of war-pipes. 
I rode on a little Highland horse on the right hand 
of my father, James More, and of Glengyle himself. 
And here is one fine thing that I remember, that Glen- 
gyle kissed me in the face, because (says he) ‘my kins- 
woman, you are the only lady of the clan that has 
come out,’ and me a little maid of maybe twelve years 
old! I saw Prince Charlie too, and the blue eyes of 
him; he was pretty indeed! I had his hand to kiss 
in the front of the army. O, well, these were the good 
days, but it is all like a dream that I have seen and 
then awakened. It went what way you very well 
know; and these were the worst days of all, when the 
red-coat soldiers were out, and my father and my 
uncles lay in the hill, and I was to be carrying them 
their meat in the middle night, or at the short side of 
day when the cocks crow. Yes, I have walked in the 
night, many’s the time, and my heart great in me for 
terror of the darkness. It is a strange thing I will 
never have been meddled with a bogle; but they say 
a maid goes safe. Next there was my uncle’s marriage, 


”? 


208 DAVID BALFOUR 


and that was a dreadful affair beyond all. Jean Kay 
was that woman’s name; and she had me in the room 
with her that night at Inversnaid, the night we took 
her from her friends in the old, ancient manner. She 
would and she wouldn’t; she was for marrying Rob 
the one minute, and the next she would be for none of 
him. I will never have scen such a feckless creature 
of a woman; surely all there was of her would tell her 
ay or no. Well, she was a widow, and I can never be 
thinking a widow a good woman.” 

“Catriona!” says I, “how do you make out that?” 

“T do not know,” said she; “I am only telling you 
the seeming in my heart. And then to marry a new 
man! Fy! But that was her; and she was married 
again upon my Uncle Robin, and went with him awhile 
to kirk and market; and then wearied, or else her 
friends got claught of her and talked her round, or 
maybe she turned ashamed; at the least of it, she ran 
away, and went back to her own folk, and said we had 
held her in the lake, and I will never tell you all what. 
IT have never thought much of any females since that 
day. And so in the end my father, James More, came 
to be cast in prison, and you know the rest of it as 
well as me.” 

“And through all you had no friends?” said I. 

“No,” said she; “I have been pretty chief with two- 
three lasses on the braes, but not to call it friends.” 

“Well, mine is a plain tale,” said J. ‘I never had a 
friend to my name till I met in with you.” 

“And that brave Mr. Stewart?” she asked. | 

“OQ yes, I was forgetting him,” I said. “But he is 
a man, and that is very different.” 

“T would think so,” said she. “O, yes, it is quite 
different.” 

“And then there was one other,” said I. “I once 
thought I had a friend, but it proved a disappoint- 
ment.”’ 

She asked me who she was? 

“It was a he, then,” said I. ‘‘We were the two best 


THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND 209 


lads at my father’s school, and we thought we loved 
each other dearly. Well, the time came when he went 
to Glasgow to a merchant’s house, that was his second 
cousin once removed; and wrote me two-three times 
by the carrier; and then he found new friends, and I 
might write till I was tired, he took no notice. Eh, 
Catriona, it took me a long while to forgive the world. 
There is not anything more bitter than to lose a 
fancied friend.” 

Then she began to question me close upon his looks 
and character, for we were each a great deal concerned 
in all that touched the other; till at last, in a very 
evil hour, I minded of his letters and went and fetched 
the bundle from the cabin. 

“Here are his letters,” said I, ‘and all the letters that 
ever I got. That will be the last I’ll can tell of my- 
self; you know the lave’ as well as I do.” 

“Will you let me read them, then?” says she. 

I told her, 2f she would be at the pains; and she 
bade me go away and she would read them from the 
one end to the other. Now, in this bundle that I gave 
her, there were packed together not only all the letters 
of my false friend, but one or two of Mr. Campbell’s 
when he was in town at the assembly, and to make a 
complete roll of all that ever was written to me, 
Catriona’s little word, and the two I had received from 
Miss Grant, one when I was on the Bass and one on 
board that ship. But of these last I had no particular 
mind at the moment. 

I was in that state of subjection to the thought of 
my friend that it mattered not what I did, nor scarce 
whether I was in her presence or out of it; I had 
caught her like some kind of a noble fever that lived 
continually in my bosom, by night and by day, and 
whether I was waking or asleep. So it befell that 
after I was come into the fore-part of the ship 
where the broad bows splashed into the billows, I 


7 Rest. 


210 DAVID BALFOUR 


was in no such hurry to return as you might fancy; 
rather prolonged my absence like a variety in pleasure. 
I do not think I am by nature much of an Epicurean; 
and there had come till then so small a share of pleas- 
ure in my way that I might be excused perhaps to 
dwell on it unduly. 

When I returned to her again, I had a faint, painful ' 
impression as of a buckle slipped, so coldly she re- 
turned the packet. 

“You have read them?” said I; and I thought my 
voice sounded not wholly natural, for I was turning in 
my mind for what could ail her. 

“Did you mean me to read all?” she asked. 

I told her “Yes,” with a drooping voice. 

“That last of them as well?” said she. 

I knew where we were now; yet I would not lie to 
her either. “I gave them all without afterthought,” 
I said, “as I supposed that you would read them. I see 
no harm in any.” 

“T will be differently made,” said she. “I thank God 
I am differently made. It was not a fit letter to be 
shown me. It was not fit to be written.” 

“T think you are speaking of your own friend, Bar- 
bara Grant?” said I. 

“There will not be anything as bitter as to lose a 
fancied friend,” said she, quoting my own expression. 

“T think it is sometimes the friendship that was 
fancied!” I cried. ‘What kind of justice do you call 
this, to blame me for some words that a tomfoul of a 
madcap lass has written down upon a piece of paper? 
You know yourself with what respect I have behaved 
—and would do always.” 

“Vet you would show me that same letter!” says 
she. ‘I want no such friends. I can be doing very 
well, Mr. Balfour, without her—or you.” 

“This is your fine gratitude!” says I. 

“T am very much obliged to you,” said she. “I will 
be asking you to take away your—letters.” She 


9? 


THE VOYAGE INTO HOLLAND 211 


seemed to choke upon the word, so that it sounded like 
an oath. 

“You shall never ask twice,” said 1; picked up that 
bundle, walked a little way forward and cast them as 
far as possible into the sea. For a very little more I 
could have cast myself after them. 

The rest of the day I walked up and down raging. 
There were few names so ill but what I gave her them 
in my own mind before the sun went down. All that 
I had ever heard of Highland pride seemed quite out- 
done; that a girl (scarce grown) should resent so 
trifling an allusion, and that from her next friend, that 
she had near wearied me with praising of! I had 
bitter, sharp, hard thoughts of her, like an angry boy’s. 
If I had kissed her indeed (I thought), perhaps she 
would have taken it pretty well; and only because it 
had been written down, and with a spice of jocularity, 
up she must fuff in this ridiculous passion. It seemed 
to me there was a want of penetration in the female 
sex, to make angels weep over the case of the poor men. 

We were side by side again at supper, and what a 
change was there! She was like curdled milk to me; 
her face was like a wooden doll’s; I could have indif- 
ferently smitten her or grovelled at her feet, but she 
gave me not the least occasion to do either. No 
sooner the meal done than she betook herself to attend 
on Mrs. Gebbie, which I think she had a little neg- 
lected heretofore. But she was to make up for lost 
time, and in what remained of the passage was extraor- 
dinary assiduous with the old lady, and on deck began 
to make a great deal more than I thought wise of 
Captain Sang. Not but what the captain seemed a 
worthy, fatherly man; but I hated to behold her in 
the least familiarity with anyone except myself. 

Altogether, she was so quick to avoid me, and so 
constant to keep herself surrounded with others, that 
I must watch a long while before I could find my 
opportunity; and after it was found, I made not much 
of it, as you are now to hear. 


212 DAVID BALFOUR 


“T have no guess how I have offended,” said I; “it 
should scarce be beyond pardon, then. O, try if you 
can pardon me.” 

“T have no pardon to give,” said she; and the words 
seemed to come out of her throat like marbles. “I will 
be very much obliged for all your friendships.” And 
she made me an eighth part of a curtsey. ' 

But I had schooled myself beforehand to say more, 
and I was going to say it too. 

“There is one thing,” said I. “If I have shocked 
your particularity by the showing of that letter, it can- 
not touch Miss Grant. She wrote not to you, but to 
a& poor common, ordinary lad, who might have had 
more sense than show it. If you are to blame me i 

“T will advise you to say no more about that girl, 
at all events!” said Catriona. “It is her I will never 
look the road of, not if she lay dying.” She turned 
away from me, and suddenly back. “Will you swear 
you will have no more to deal with her?” she cried. 

“Indeed, and I will never be so unjust then,” said I; 
“nor yet so ungrateful.” 

And now it was I that turned away. 





CHAPTER XXII 
HELVOETSLUYS 


HE weather in the end considerably worsened; 

the wind sang in the shrouds, the sea swelled 
higher, and the ship began to labour and cry out among 
the billows. The song of the leadsman in the chains 
was now scarce ceasing, for we thrid all the way 
among shoals. About nine in the morning, in a burst 
of wintry sun between two squalls of hail, I had my 
first look of Holland—a line of windmills birling in 
the breeze. It was besides my first knowledge of these 
daft-like contrivances, which gave me a near sense 
of foreign travel and a new world and life. We came 
to an anchor about half-past eleven, outside the har- 
bour of Helvoetsluys, in a place where the sea some- 
times broke and the ship pitched outrageously. You 
may be sure we were all on deck save Mrs. Gebbie, 
some of us in cloaks, others mantled in the ship’s tar- 
paulins, all clinging on by ropes, and jesting the most 
like old sailor-folk that we could imitate. 

Presently a boat, that was backed like a partan- 
crab, came gingerly alongside, and the skipper hailed 
our master in the Dutch. Thence Captain Sang turned, 
very troubled-like, to Catriona; and the rest of us 
crowding about, the nature of the difficulty was made 
plain to all. The Rose was bound to the port of 
Rotterdam, whither the other passengers were in a 
great impatience to arrive, in view of a conveyance 
due to leave that very evening in the direction of the 
Upper Germany. This, with the present half-gale of 
wind, the captain (if no time were lost) declared him- 
self still capable to save. Now James More had 

213 


214 DAVID BALFOUR 


trysted in Helvoet with his daughter, and the captain 
had engaged to call before the port and place her (ac- 
cording to the custom) in a shore boat. There was the 
boat, to be sure, and here was Catriona ready: but 
both our master and the patroon of the boat scrupled 
at the risk, and the first was in no humour to delay. 

“Your father,’ said he, “would be gey an little 
pleased if we was to break a leg to ye, Miss Drum- 
mond, let-a-be drowning of you. Take my way of. it,” 
says he, “and come on-by with the rest of us here to 
Rotterdam. Ye can get a passage down the Maes in a 
sailing scoot as far as to the Brill, and thence on again, 
by a place in a rattel-waggon, back to Helvoet.” 

But Catriona would hear of no change. She looked 
white-like as she beheld the bursting of the sprays, the 
green seas that sometimes poured upon the forecastle, 
and the perpetual bounding and swooping of the boat 
among the billows; but she stood firmly by her father’s 
orders. “My father, James More, will have arranged 
it so,” was her first word and her last. I thought it 
very idle and indeed wanton in the girl to be so literal 
and stand opposite to so much kind advice; but the fact 
is she had a very good reason, if she would have told 
us. Sailing scoots and rattel-waggons are excellent 
things; only the use of them must first be paid for, 
and all she was possessed of in the world was just 
two shillings and a penny half-penny sterling. So it 
fell out that captain and passengers, not knowing of 
her destitution—and she being too proud to tell them 
—spoke in vain. 

“But you ken nae French and nae Dutch neither,” 
said one. 

“Tt is very true,” says she, “but since the year 746. 
there are so many of the honest Scots abroad that I 
will be doing very well, I thank you.” 

There was a pretty country simplicity in this that 
made some laugh, others looked the more sorry, and 
Mr, Gebbie fell outright in a passion. I believe he 
knew it wag his duty (his wife having accepted charge 


HELVOETSLUYS 215 


of the girl) to have gone ashore with her and seen 
her safe: nothing*would have induced him to have 
done so, since it must have involved the loss of his 
conveyance; and I think he made it up to his con- 
science by the loudness of his voice. At least he broke 
out upon Captain Sang, raging and saying the thing 
was a disgrace; that it was mere death to try to leave 
the ship, and at any event we could not cast down 
an innocent maid in a boatful of nasty Holland fishers, 
and leave her to her fate. I was thinking of something 
the same; took the mate upon one side, arranged with 
him to send on my chests by track-scoot to an address 
I had in Leyden, and stood up and signalled to the 
fishers. 

“T will go ashore with the young lady, Captain 
Sang,” said I. “It is all one what way I go to Leyden”; 
and leaped at the same time into the boat which I had 
managed not so elegantly but what I fell with two of 
the fishers in the bilge. 

From the boat the business appeared yet more pre- 
carious than from the ship, she stood so high over us, 
swung down so swift, and menaced us so perpetually 
with her plunging and passaging upon the anchor 
cable. I began to think I had made a fool’s bargain, 
that it was merely impossible Catriona should be got 
on board to me, and that I stood to be set ashore at 
Helvoet all by myself and with no hope of any re- 
ward but the pleasure of embracing James More, if I 
should want to. But this was to reckon without the 
lass’s courage. She had seen me leap with very little 
appearance (however much reality) of hesitation; to 
be sure, she was not to be beat by her discarded 
friend. Up she stood on the bulwarks and held by a 
stay, the wind blowing in her petticoats, which made 
the enterprise more dangerous, and gave us rather 
more of a view of her stockings than would be thought 
genteel in cities. There was no minute lost, and scarce 
time given for any to interfere if they had wished 
the same. I stood up on the other side and spread my 


216 DAVID BALFOUR 


arms; the ship swung down on us, the patroon 
humoured his boat nearer in than was perhaps wholly 
safe, and Catriona leaped into the air. I was so happy 
as to catch her, and the fishers readily supporting us, 
escaped a fall. She held to me a moment very tight, 
breathing quick and deep; thence (she still clinging 
to me with both hands) we were passed aft to our 
places by the steersman; and Captain Sang and all 
the crew and passengers cheering and crying farewell, 
the boat was put about for shore. 

As soon as Catriona came a little to herself she un- 
handed me suddenly but said no word. No more did 
I; and indeed the whistling of the wind and the breach- 
ing of the sprays made it no time for speech; and our 
crew not only toiled excessively but made extremely 
little way, so that the Rose had got her anchor and 
was off again before we had approached the harbour 
mouth. 

We were no sooner in smooth water than the patroon 
according to their beastly Hollands custom, stopped 
his boat and required of us our fares. Two guilders 
was the man’s demand—between three and four shil- 
lings English money—for each passenger. But at this 
Catriona began to cry out with a vast deal of agi- 
tation. She had asked of Captain Sang, she said, and 
the fare was but an English shilling. “Do you think 
I will have come on board and not ask first?” cries 
she. The patroon scolded back upon her in a lingo 
where the oaths were English and the rest right 
Hollands; till at last (seeing her near tears) I privately 
slipped in the rogue’s hands six shillings, whereupon 
he was obliging enough to receive from her the other 
shilling without more complaint. No doubt I was a 
good deal nettled and ashamed. I like to see folk 
thrifty, but not with so much passion; and I daresay 
it would be rather coldly that I asked her, as the 
boat moved on again for shore, where it was that she 
was trysted with her father. 

“He is to be inquired of at the house of one Sprott, 


HELVOETSLUYS 217 


an honest Scotch merchant,” says she; and then with 
the same breath, “I am wishing to thank you very 
much—you are a brave friend to me.” 

“Tt will be time enough when I get you to your 
father,” said I, little thinking that I spoke so true. 
“T can tell him a fine tale of a loval daughter.” 

“O, I do not think I will be a loyal girl, at all 
events,” she cried, with a great deal of painfulness in 
the expression. “I do not think my heart is true.” 

“Yet there are very few that would have made that 
leap, and all to obey a father’s orders,” I observed. 

“T cannot have you to be thinking of me so,” she 
cried again. “When you had done that same, how 
would I stop behind? And at all events that was not 
all the reasons.” Whereupon, with a burning face, she 
told me the plain truth upon her poverty. 

“Good guide us!” cried I, “what kind of daft-like 
proceeding is this, to let yourself be launched on the 
continent of Europe with an empty purse—I count it 
hardly decent—scant decent!” I cried. 

“You forget James More, my father, is a poor gentle- 
man,” said she. ‘He is a hunted exile.” 

“But I think not all your friends are hunted exiles,” 
T exclaimed. ‘And was this fair to them that care for 
you? Was it fair to me? was it fair to Miss Grant 
that counselled you to go, and would be driven fair 
horn-mad if she could hear of it? Was it even fair 
to these Gregory folk that you were living with, and 
used you lovingly? It’s a blessing you have fallen in 
my hands! Suppose your father hindered by an acci- 
dent, what would become of you here, and you your 
lee-lone in a strange place? The thought of the thing 
frightens me,” I said. 

“T will have lied to all of them,” she replied. “I 
will have told them all that I had plenty. I told her 
too. I could not be lowering James More to them.” 

I found out later on that she must have lowered him 
in the very dust, for the lie was originally the father’s, 
not the daughter’s, and she thus obliged to persevere 


218 DAVID BALFOUR 


in it for the man’s reputation. But at the time I was 
ignorant of this, and the mere thought of her desti- 
tution and the perils in which she must have fallen, 
had ruffled me almost beyond reason. 

“Well, well, well,” said I, “you will have to learn 
more sense.” 

I left her mails for the moment in an inn upon the 
shore, where I got a direction for Sprott’s house in my 
new French, and we walked there—it was some little 
way—beholding the place with wonder as we went. 
Indeed, there was much for Scots folk to admire: 
canals and trees being intermingled with the houses; 
each within itself, of a brave red brick, the colour of 
a rose, with steps and benches of blue marble at the 
cheek of every door, and the whole town so clean you 
might have dined upon the causeway. Sprott was 
within, upon his ledgers, in a low parlour, very neat 
and clean, and set out with china and pictures and a 
globe of the earth in a brass frame. He was a big- 
chafted, ruddy, lusty man, with a crooked hard look 
to him; and he made us not that much civility as 
offer us a seat. 

“Is James More Macgregor now in Helvoet, sir?” 
says I. 
ae ken nobody by such a name,” says he, impatient 
ike. 

“Since you are so particular,” says I, “I will amend 
my question, and ask you where we are to find in 
Helvoet one James Drummond, alias Macgregor, alias 
James More, late tenant in Inveronachile?” 

“Sir,” says he, “he may be in Hell for what I ken, 
and for my part I wish he was.” 

“The young lady is that gentleman’s daughter, sir,” 
said I, “before whom, I think you will agree with me, 
it is not very becoming to discuss his character.” 

“YT have nothing to make either with him, or her, or 
you!” cries he in his gross voice. 

“Under your favour, Mr. Sprott,” said I, “this young 
lady is come from Scotland seeking him, and by 


HELVOETSLUYS 219 


whatever mistake, was given the name of your house 
for a direction. An error it seems to have been, but I 
think this places both you and me—who am but her 
fellow-traveller by accident—under a strong obligation 
to help our countrywoman.” 

“Will you ding me daft?” he cries. “I tell ye I 
ken naething and care less either for him or his breed. 
I tell ye the man owes me money.” 

“That may very well be, sir,” said 1, who was now 
rather more angry than himself. “At least, I owe you 
nothing; the young lady is under my protection; and 
I am neither at all used with these manners, nor in the 
least content with them.” 

As I said this, and without particularly thinking 
what I did, I drew a step or two nearer to his table; 
thus striking, by mere good fortune, on the only argu- 
ment that could at all affect the man. The blood left 
his lusty countenance. 

“For the Lord’s sake dinnae be hasty, sir!’’ he cried. 
“Tt am truly wishfu’ no to be offensive. But ye ken, 
sir, I’m like a wheen guid-natured, honest, canty auld 
fallows—my bark is waur nor my bite. To hear me, 
ye micht whiles fancy I was a wee thing dour; but, 
na, na! it’s a kind auld fallow at heart, Sandie Sprott! 
And ye could never imagine the fyke and fash this 
man has been to me.” 

“Very good, sir,’ said I. “Then I will make that 
much freedom with your kindness as trouble you for 
your last news of Mr. Drummond.” 

“You’re welcome, sir!” said he. “As for the young 
leddy (my respec’s to her!), he’ll just have clean 
forgotten her. I ken the man, ye see; I have lost siller 
by him ere now. He thinks of naebody but just him- 
sel’; clan, king, or dauchter, if he can get his wameful, 
he would give them a’ the go-by! ay, or his correspond- 
ent either. For there is a sense in whilk I may be 
~ nearly almost said to be his correspondent. The fact 
is, we are employed thegether in a business affair, and 
I think it’s like to turn out a dear affair for Sandie 


220 DAVID BALFOUR 


Sprott. The man’s as guid’s my pairtner, and I give 
ye my mere word I ken naething by where he is. He 
micht be coming here to Helvoet; he micht come here 
the morn, he michtnae come for a twal-month; I would 
wonder at naething, and that’s if he was to pay me my 
siller. Ye see what way I stand with it; and it’s clear 
I’m no very likely to meddle up with the young leddy, 
as ye ca’ her. She cannae stop here, that’s ae thing 
certain and sure. Dod, sir, ’m alone man! If I was 
to tak her in, it’s highly possible the hellicat would 
try and gar me marry her when he turned up.” 

“Enough of this talk,” said I. “TI will take the young 
lady among better friends. Give me pen, ink, and 
paper, and [ will leave here for James More the ad- 
dress of my correspondent in Leyden. He can inquire 
from me where he is to seek his daughter.” 

This word I wrote and sealed; which while I was 
doing, Sprott of his own motion made a welcome offer, 
to charge himself with Miss Drummond’s mails, and 
even send a porter for them to the inn. I advanced 
him to that effect a dollar or two to be a cover, and 
he gave me an acknowledgement in writing of the 
sum, 

Whereupon (I giving my arm to Catriona) we left 
the house of this unpalatable rascal. She had said no 
word throughout, leaving me to judge and speak in 
her place; I, upon my side, had been careful not to 
embarrass her by a glance; and even now, although 
my heart still glowed inside of me with shame and 
anger, | made it my affair to seem quite easy. 

“Now,” said I, “let us get back to yon same inn 
where they can speak the French, have a piece of 
dinner, and inquire for conveyances to Rotterdam. 
I will never be easy till I have you safe again in the 
hands of Mrs. Gebbie.” 

“T suppose it will have to be,” said Catriona, “though 
whoever will be pleased, I do not think it will be her. 
And I will remind you this once again that I have but 
one shilling, and three baubees.” 


HELVOETSLUYS 221 


*“And just this once again,” said I, “I will remind 
you it was a blessing that I came alongst with you.” 

“What else would I be thinking all this time?” says 
she, and I thought weighed a little on my arm. “It is 
you that are the good friend to me.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


TRAVELS IN HOLLAND 


HE rattel-waggon, which is a kind of a long 

waggon set with benches, carried us in four hours 
of travel to the great city of Rotterdam. It was long 
past dark by then, but the streets pretty brightly 
lighted and thronged with wild-like, outlandish char- 
acters—bearded Hebrews, black men, and the hordes 
of courtesans, most indecently adorned with finery 
and stopping seamen by their very sleeves; the clash of 
talk about us made our heads to whirl; and what was 
the most unexpected of all, we appeared to be no more 
struck with all these foreigners than they with us. 
I made the best face I could, for the lass’s sake and 
my own credit; but the truth is I felt like a lost sheep, 
and my heart beat in my bosom with anxiety. Once 
or twice I inquired after the harbour or the berth of 
the ship Rose; but either fell on some who spoke only 
Hollands, or my own French failed me. Trying a 
street at a venture, I came upon a lane of lighted 
houses, the door and windows thronged with wauf-like 
painted women; these jostled and mocked upon us as 
we passed, and I was thankful we had nothing of their 
language. A little after we issued forth upon an open 
place along the harbour. 

“We shall be doing now,” cries I, as soon as I spied 
masts. “Let us walk here by the harbour. We are 
sure to meet some that has the English, and at the 
best of it we may light upon that very ship.” 

We did the next best, as happened; for, about nine 
of the evening, whom should we walk into the arms of 
but Captain Sang? He told us they had made their 

222 


TRAVELS IN HOLLAND 223 


run in the most incredible brief time, the wind holding 
strong till they reached port; by which means his 
passengers were all gone already on their further 
travels. It was impossible to chase after the Gebbies 
into the High Germany, and we had no other acquaint- 
ance to fall back upon but Captain Sang himself. 
It was the more gratifying to find the man friendly 
and wishful to assist. He made it a small affair to 
find some good plain family of merchants, where 
Catriona might harbour till the Rose was loaden; 
declared he would blithely carry her back to Leith 
for nothing and see her safe in the hands of Mr. 
Gregory; and in the meanwhile carried us to a late 
ordinary for the meal we stood in need of. He seemed 
extremely friendly, as I say, but what surprised me a 
good deal, rather boisterous in the bargain; and the 
cause of this was soon to appear, For at the ordinary, 
calling for Rhenish wine and drinking of it deep, 
he soon became unutterably tipsy. In this case, as 
too common with all men, but especially those of his 
rough trade, what little sense or manners he possessed 
deserted him; and he behaved himself so scandalous to 
the young lady, jesting most ill-favouredly at the 
figure she had made on the ship’s rail, that I had no 
resource but carry her suddenly away. 

She came out of that ordinary clinging to me close. 
“Take me away, David,” she said. “You keep me. I 
am not afraid with you.” 

“And have no cause, my little friend!” cried I, and 
could have found it in my heart to weep. 

“Where will you be taking me?” she said again. 
“Don’t leave me at all events—never leave me.” 

“Where am I taking you indeed?” says I stopping, 
for I had been staving on ahead in mere blindness. “T 
must stop and think. But I’l] not leave you, Catriona; 
the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ; should fail or 
fash you.” 

She crept closer in to me by way of a reply. 

“Here,” I said, “is the stillest place that we have 


224 DAVID BALFOUR 


hit on yet in this busy byke of a city. Let us sit 
down here under yon tree and consider of our course.” 

That tree (which I am little like to forget) stood 
hard by the harbour side. It was a black night, but 
lights were in the houses, and nearer hand in the 
quiet ships; there was a shining of the city on the one 
hand, and a buzz hung over it of many thousands 
walking and talking; on the other, it was dark and 
water bubbled on the sides. I spread my cloak upon 
a builder’s stone, and made her sit there; she would 
have kept her hold upon me, for she still shook with 
the late affronts; but I wanted to think clear, disen- 
gaged myself, and paced to and fro before her, in the 
manner of what we call a smuggler’s walk, belabouring 
my brains for any remedy. By the course of these 
scattering thoughts I was brought suddenly face to 
face with a remembrance that, in the heat and haste 
of our departure, I had left Captain Sang to pay the 
ordinary. At this I began to laugh out loud, for I 
thought the man well served; and at the same time, by 
an instinctive movement, carried my hand to the 
pocket where my money was. I suppose it was in the 
lane where the women jostled us; but there is only 
the one thing certain, that my purse was gone. 

“You will have thought of something good,” said 
she, observing me to pause. 

At the pinch we were in, my mind became suddenly 
clear as a perspective glass, and I saw there was no 
choice of methods. I had not one doit of coin, but 
in my pocketbook I had still my letter on the Leyden 
merchant; and there was now but the one way to get 
to Leyden, and that was to walk on our two feet. 

“Catriona,” said I, “I know you’re brave and I be- 
lieve you’re strong—do you think you could walk 
thirty miles on a plain road?” We found it, I believe, 
scarce the two-thirds of that, but such was my notion 
of the distance. 

“David,” she said, “if you will just keep near, I will 
go anywhere and do anything. The courage of my 


TRAVELS IN HOLLAND 225 


heart, it is all broken. Do not be leaving me in this 
horrible country by myself, and I will do all else.” 

“Can you start now and march all night?” said I. 

“T will do all that you can ask of me,” she said, “and 
never ask you why. I have been a bad ungrateful 
girl to you; and do what you please with me now! And 
I think Miss Barbara Grant is the best lady in the 
world,” she added, “and I do not see what she would 
deny you for at all events.” 

This was Greek and Hebrew to me; but I had other 
matters to consider, and the first of these was to get 
clear of that city on the Leyden road. It proved a 
cruel problem; and it may have been one or two at 
night ere we had solved it. Once beyond the houses, 
there was neither moon nor stars to guide us; only 
the whiteness of the way in the midst and a blackness 
of an alley on both hands. The walking was besides 
made most extraordinary difficult by a plain black 
frost that fell suddenly in the small hours and turned 
_ that highway into one long slide. 

“Well, Catriona,” said I, “here we are like the king’s 
sons and old wives’ daughters in your daft-like High- 
land tales. Soon we'll be going over the ‘seven Bens, 
the seven glens, and the seven mountain moors’.” 
Which was a common byword or overcome in those 
tales of hers that had stuck in my memory. 

“Ah,” says she, “but here are no glens or mountains! 
Though I will never be denying but what the trees and 
some of the plain places hereabouts are very pretty. 
But our country is the best yet.” 

“T wish we could say as much for our own folk,” 
says I, recalling Sprott and Sang, and perhaps James 
More himself. 

“T will never complain of the country of my friend,” 
said she, and spoke it out with an accent so particular 
that I seemed to see the look upon her face. 

I caught in my breath sharp and came near falling 
(for my pains) on the black ice. 

“T do not know what you think, Catriona,” said I, 


226 DAVID BALFOUR 


when I was a little recovered, “but this has been 
the best day yet! I think shame to say it, when you 
have met in with such misfortunes and disfavours; 
but for me, it has been the best day yet.” 

“Tt was a good day when you showed me so much 
love,” said she. 

“And yet I think shame to be happy too,” I went 
on, “and you here on the road in the black night. 4 

“Where in the great world would I be else?” she 
cried. “{ am thinking I am safest where I am with 
you. 

“T am quite forgiven, then?” I asked. 

“Will you not forgive me that time so much as not 
to take it in your mouth again?” she cried. “There 
is nothing in this heart to you but thanks. But I will 
be honest, too,” she added, with a kind of suddenness, 

“and Ill never can forgive that girl.” 

“Is this Miss Grant again?” said I. “You said 
yourself she was the best lady in the world.” 

“So she will be, indeed!” says Catriona. “But I 
will never forgive her for all that. I will never, never 
forgive her, and let me hear tell of her no more.” 

“Well,’”’ said I, “this beats all that ever came to my 
knowledge; and I wonder that you can indulge your- 
self in such bairnly whims. Here is a young lady that 
was the best friend in the world to both of us, that 
learned us how to dress ourselves, and in a great 
manner how to behave, as anyone can see that knew 
us both before and after.” 

But Catriona stopped square in the midst of the 
highway. 

“Tt is this way of it,” said she. “Hither you will go 
on to speak of her, and I will go back to yon town, 
and let come of it what God pleases! Or else you will 
do me that politeness to talk of other things.” 

I was the most nonplussed person in this world; but 
I bethought me that she depended altogether on my 
help, that she was of the frail sex and not so much 


TRAVELS IN HOLLAND 227 


beyond a child, and it was for me to be wise for the 
pair of us. 

“My dear girl,” said I, “I can make neither head nor 
tails of this; but God forbid that I should do anything 
to set you on the jee. As for talking of Miss Grant, I 
have no such a mind to it, and I believe it was your- 
self began it. My only design (if I took you up at 
all) was for your own improvement, for I hate the very 
look of injustice. Not that I do not wish you to have 
a good pride and a nice female delicacy; they become 
you well; but here you show them to excess.” 

‘Well, then, have you done?” said she. 

“T have done,” said I. 

“A very good thing,’ said she, and we went on 
again, but now in silence. 

It was an eerie employment to walk in the gross 
night, beholding only shadows and hearing nought: but 
our own steps. At first, I believe our hearts burned 
against each other with a deal of enmity; but the 
darkness and the cold, and the silence, which only the 
cocks sometimes interrupted, or sometimes the farm- 
yard dogs, had pretty soon brought down our pride 
to the dust; and for my own particular, I would have 
jumped at any decent opening for speech. 

Before the day peeped, came on a warmish rain, and 
the frost was all wiped away from among our feet. 
I took my cloak to her and sought to hap her in the 
same; she bade me, rather impatiently, to keep it. 

“Indeed and I will do no such thing,” said I. “Here 
am I, a great, ugly lad that has seen all kinds of 
weather, and here are you a tender, pretty maid! My 
dear, you would not put me to a shame?” 

Without more words she let me cover her; which 
as I was doing in the darkness, I let my hand rest 
a moment on her shoulder, almost like an embrace. 

a ou must try to be more patient of your friend,” 
said I. 

I thought she seemed to lean the least thing in the 
world against my bosom, or perhaps it was but fancy. 


228 DAVID BALFOUR 


“There will be no end to your goodness,” said she. 

And we went on again in silence; but now all was 
changed; and the happiness that was in my heart was 
like a fire in a great chimney. 

The rain passed ere day; it was but a sloppy morning 
as we came into the town of Delft. The red gabled 
houses made a handsome show on either hand of a 
canal; the servant lassies were out slestering and 
scrubbing at the very stones upon the public highway; 
smoke rose from a hundred kitchens; and it came in 
upon me strongly it was time to break our fasts. 

“Catriona,” said I, “I believe you have yet a shilling 
and three baubees?” 

“Are you wanting it?” said she, and passed me her 
purse. “I am wishing it was five pounds! What will 
you want it for?” 

“And what have we been walking for all night, like 
a pair of waif Egyptians?” says I. “Just because I 
was robbed of my purse and all I possessed in that 
unchancy town of Rotterdam. I will tell you of it 
now, because I think the worst is over, but we have still 
a good tramp before us till we get to where my money 
is, and if you would not buy me a piece of bread, I 
were like to go fasting.” 

She looked at me with open eyes. By the light of the 
new day she was all black and pale for weariness, so 
that my heart smote me for her. But as for her, she 
broke out laughing. 

“My torture! are we beggars then?” she cried. ‘You 
too? O, I could have wished for this same thing! 
And I am glad to buy your breakfast to you. But it 
would be pleisand if I would have had to dance to 
get a meal to you! For I believe they are not very 
well acquainted with our manner of dancing over here, 
and might be paying for the curiosity of the sight.” 

I could have kissed her for that word, not with a 
lover’s mind, but in a heat of admiration. For it 
always warms a man to see a woman brave. 

We got a drink of milk from a country wife but new 


TRAVELS IN HOLLAND 229 


come to the town, and in a baker’s, a piece of excellent, 
hot, sweet-smelling bread, which we ate upon the road 
as we went on. That road from Delft to the Hague 
is just five miles of a fine avenue shaded with trees, a 
canal on the one hand, on the other excellent pastures 
of cattle. It was pleasant here indeed. 

“And now, Davie,” said she, “what will you do 
with me at all events?” 

“Tt is that what we have to speak of,” said I, “and 
the sooner yet the better. I can come by money in 
Leyden; that will be all well. But the trouble is how 
to dispose of you until your father come. I thought 
last night you seemed a little sweir to part from me?” 

“Tt will be more than seeming then,” said she. 

“You are a very young maid,” said I, “and I am 
but a very young callant. This is a great piece of 
difficulty. What way are we to manage? Unless, in- 
deed, you could pass to be my sister?” 

“And what for no?” said she, “if you would let me! 

“IT wish you were so, indeed!” I cried. “I would 
be a fine man if I had such a sister, But the rub is 
that you are Catriona Drummond.” 

‘“‘And now I will be Catrine Balfour,” she said. ‘And 
who is to ken? They are all strange folk here.” 

“Tf you think that it would do,” says I. “I own it 
troubles me. I would like it very ill, if I advised you 
at all wrong.” 

“David, I have no friend here but you,” she said. 

“The mere truth is, I am too young to be your 
friend,” said I. “I am too young to advise you, or 
you to be advised. I see not what else we are to do, 
and yet I ought to warn you.” 

“T will have no choice left,” said she. “My father 
James More has not used me very well, and it is not 
the first time. I am cast upon your hands like a sack 
of barley meal, and have nothing else to think of but 
your pleasure. If you will have me, good and well. 
If you will not’—she turned and touched her hand 
upon my arm—‘“David, I am afraid,” said she. 


”? 


230 DAVID BALFOUR 


“No, but I ought to warn you,” I began; and then 
bethought me that I was the bearer of the purse, and 
it would never do to seem too churlish. “Catriona,” 
said I, “don’t misunderstand me: I am just trying to 
do my "duty by you, girl! Here am I going alone to this 
strange city, to be a solitary student there; and here 
is this chance arisen that you might dwell with me a 
bit, and be like my sister: you can surely understand 
Se nee, my dear, that I would just love to have 
you? 

“Well, and here I am,” said she. “So that’s soon 
settled.” 

I know I was in duty bounden to have spoke more 
plain. I know this was a great blot on my character, 
for which I was lucky that I did not pay more dear. 
But I minded how easy her delicacy had been startled 
with a word of kissing her in Barbara’s letter; now | 
that she depended on me, how was I to be more bold? 
Besides, the truth is, I could see no other feasible 
method to dispose of her. And I daresay inclination 
pulled me very strong. 

A little beyond the Hague she fell very lame and 
made the rest of the distance heavily enough. Twice 
she must rest by the wayside, which she did with pretty 
apologies, calling herself a shame to the Highlands and 
the race she came of, and nothing but a hindrance to 
myself. It was her excuse, she said, that she was not 
much used with walking shod. I would have had her 
strip off her shoes and stockings and go barefoot. But 
she pointed out to me that the women of that country, 
even in the landward roads, appeared to be all shod. 

“T must: not be disgracing my brother,” said she, 
and was very merry with it all, although her face told 
tales of her. 

There is a garden in that city we were bound to, 
sanded below with clean sand, the trees meeting over- 
head, some of them trimmed, some pleached, and the 
whole place beautified with alleys and arbours. Here 
I left Catriona, and went forward by myself to find 


TRAVELS IN HOLLAND 231 


my correspondent. There I drew on my credit, and 
asked to be recommended to some decent, retired 
lodging. My baggage not being yet arrived, I told him 
I supposed I should require his caution with the people 
of the house; and explained that, my sister being come 
for a while to keep house with me, I should be wanting 
two chambers. This was all very ‘well: but the trouble 
was that Mr. Balfour in his letter of recommendation 
had condescended on a great deal of particulars, and 
never a word of any sister in the case. I could see my 
Dutchman was extremely suspicious; and viewing me 
over the rims of a great pair of spectacles—he was 
a poor, frail body, and reminded me of an infirm rabbit 
—he began to question me close. 

Here I fell in a panic. Suppose he accept my tale 
(thinks I), suppose he invite my sister to his house, 
and that I bring her. I shall have a fine ravelled pirn 
to unwind, and may end by disgracing both the lassie 
and myself. Thereupon I began hastily to expound to 
him my sister’s character. She was of a bashful dispo- 
sition, it appeared, and so extremely fearful of meeting 
strangers that I had left her at that moment sitting 
in a “public place alone. And then, being launched 
upon the stream of falsehood, I must do like all the 
rest of the world in the same circumstance, and plunge 
in deeper than was any service; adding some alto- 
gether needless particulars of Miss Balfour’s ill-health 
and retirement during childhood. In the midst of 
which I awoke to a sense of my behaviour, and was 
turned to one blush. 

The old gentleman was not so much deceived but 
what he discovered a willingness to be quit of me. 
But he was first of all a man of business; and knowing 
that. my money was good enough, however it might be 
with my conduct, he was so far obliging as to send his 
son to be my guide and caution in the matter of a 
lodging. This implied my presenting of the young man 
to Catriona. The poor, pretty child was much re- 
covered with resting, looked and behaved to perfection, 


232 DAVID BALFOUR 


and took my arm and gave me the name of brother 
more easily than I could answer her. But there was 
one misfortune: thinking to help, she was rather 
towardly than otherwise to my Dutchman. And I 
could not but reflect that Miss Balfour had rather 
suddenly outgrown her bashfulness. And there was 
another thing, the difference of our speech. I had the 
Low Country tongue and dwelled upon my words; 
she had a hill voice, spoke with something of an 
English accent, only far more delightful, and was 
scarce quite fit to be called a deacon in the craft of 
talking English grammar; so that, for a brother and 
sister, we made a most uneven pair. But the young 
Hollander was a heavy dog, without so much spirit 
in his belly as to remark her prettiness, for which I 
scorned him. And as soon as he had found a cover 
to our heads, he left us alone, which was the greater 
service of the two. 


CHAPTER XXIV 
FULL STORY OF A COPY OF HEINECCIUS 


HE place found was in the upper part of a house 

backed on a canal. We had two rooms, the second 
entering from the first; each had a chimney built out 
into the floor in the Dutch manner; and being along- 
side, each had the same prospect from the window of 
the top of a tree below us in a little court, of a piece 
of canal, and of houses in the Hollands architecture 
and a church spire upon the further side. A full set of 
bells hung in that spire and made delightful music; 
and when there was any sun at all, it shone direct 
in our two chambers. From a tavern hard by we had 
good meals sent in. 

The first night we were both pretty weary, and she 
extremely so. There was little talk between us, and 
I packed her off to her bed as soon as she had eaten. 
The first thing in the morning I wrote word to Sprott 
to have her mails sent on, together with a line to Alan 
at his chief’s; and had the same despatched, and her 
breakfast ready, ere I waked her. I was a little 
abashed when she came forth in her one habit, and 
the mud of the way upon her stockings. By what 
inquiries I had made, it seemed a good few days must 
pass before her mails could come to hand in Leyden, 
and it was plainly needful she must have a shift of 
things. She was unwilling at first that I should go 
to that expense; but I reminded her she was now a 
rich man’s sister and must appear suitably in the 
part, and we had not got to the second merchant’s 
before she was entirely charmed into the spirit of the 
thing, and her eyes shining. It pleased me to see her 


92° 
“aod 


234 DAVID BALFOUR 


so innocent and thorough in this pleasure. What was 
more extraordinary was the passion into which I fell on 
it myself; being never satisfied that I had bought her 
enough or fine enough, and never weary of beholding 
her in different attires. Indeed, 1 began to understand 
some little of Miss Grant’s immersion in that interest 
of clothes; for the truth is, when you have the ground 
of a beautiful person to adorn, the whole business be- 
comes beautiful. The Dutch chintzes I should say 
were extraordinary cheap and fine; but I would be 
ashamed to set down what I paid for stockings to her. 
Altogether I spent so great a sum upon this pleasuring 
(as I may call it) that I was ashamed for a great 
while to spend more; and by way of a set-off, I left 
our chambers pretty bare. If we had beds, if Catriona 
was a little braw, and I had light to see her by, we 
were richly enough lodged for me. 

By the end of this merchandising I was glad to leave 
her at the door with all our purchases, and go for a 
long walk alone in which to read myself a lecture. 
Here had I taken under my roof, and as good as to 
my bosom, a young lass extremely beautiful, and whose 
innocence was her peril. My talk with the old Dutch- 
man, and the lies to which I was constrained, had 
already given me a sense of how my conduct must 
appear to others; and now, after the strong admiration 
I had just experienced and the immoderacy with which 
I had continued my vain purchases I began to think 
of it myself as very hasarded. I bethought me, if I 
had a sister indeed, whether I would so expose her; 
then, judging the case too problematical, I varied my 
question into this, whether I would so trust Catriona 
in the hands of any other Christian being: the answer 
to which made my face to burn. The more cause, since 
I had been entrapped and had entrapped the girl into 
an undue situation, that I should behave in it with 
scrupulous nicety. She depended on me wholly for her 
bread and shelter; in case I should alarm her delicacy, 
she had no retreat. Besides, I was her host and her 


A COPY OF HEINECCIUS 235 


protector; and the more irregularly I had fallen in 
these positions, the less excuse for me if I should 
profit by the same to forward even the most honest 
suit; for with the opportunity that I enjoyed, and 
which no wise parent would have suffered for a mo- 
ment, even the most honest suit would be unfair. I 
saw I must be extremely hold-off in my relations; and 
yet not too much so neither; for if I had no right to 
appear at all in the character of a suitor, 1 must yet 
appear continually, and if possible agreeably, in that of 
host. It was plain I should require a great deal of 
tact and conduct, perhaps more than my years afforded. 
But I had rushed in where angels might have feared 
to tread, and there was no way out of that position 
save by behaving right while I was in it. I made a 
set of rules for my guidance; prayed for strength to be 
enabled to observe them, and as a more human aid to 
the same end purchased a study-book in law. This 
being all that I could think of, I relaxed from these 
grave considerations; whereupon my mind bubbled at 
once into an effervescency of pleasing spirits, and it 
was like one treading on air that I turned homeward. 
As I thought that name of home, and recalled the 
image of that figure awaiting me between four walls, 
my heart beat upon my bosom. 

My troubles began with my return. She ran to greet 
me with an obvious and affecting pleasure. She was 
clad, besides, entirely in the new clothes that I had 
bought for her; looked in them beyond expression well; 
and must walk about and drop me curtseys to display 
them and to be admired. I am sure I did it with an 
ill grace, for I thought to have choked upon the words. 

“Well,” she said, “if you will not be caring for my 
pretty clothes, see what I have done with our two 
chambers.” And she showed me the place all very 
finely swept and the fires glowing in the two chim- 
neys. , 

I was glad of a chance to seem a little more severe 
than I quite felt. “Catriona,” said I, “I am very much 


236 DAVID BALFOUR 


displeased with you, and you must never again lay 
a hand upon my room. One of us two must have the 
rule while we are here together; it is most fit it should 
be I who am both the man and the elder; and I give 
you that for my command.” 

She dropped me one of her curtseys, which were 
extraordinary taking. “If you will be cross,” said she, 
“{ must be making pretty manners at you, Davie. I 
will be very obedient, as I should be when every stitch 
upon all there is of me belongs to you. But you will 
not be very cross either, because now I have not anyone 
else.” 

This struck me hard, and I made haste, in a kind of 
penitence, to blot out all the good effect of my last 
speech. In this direction progress was more easy, 
being down hill; she led me forward, and smiling; at 
the sight of her, in the brightness of the fire and with 
her pretty becks and looks, my heart was altogether 
melted. We made our meal with infinite mirth and 
tenderness; and the two seemed to be commingled into 
one, so that our very laughter sounded like a kindness. 

In the midst of which I awoke to better recollections, 
made a lame word of excuse, and set myself boorishly 
to my studies. It was a substantial, instructive book 
that I had bought, by the late Dr. Heineccius, in which 
I was to do a great deal of reading these next days, and 
often very glad that I had no one to question me of 
what I read. Methought she bit her lip at me a little, 
and that cut me. Indeed it left her wholly solitary, the 
more as she was very little of a reader, and had never 
a book. But what was I to do? 

So the rest of the evening flowed by almost without 
speech. 

I could have beat myself. I could not lie in my bed 
that night for rage and repentance, but walked to and 
fro on my bare feet till I was nearly perished, for the 
chimney was gone out and the frost keen. The thought 
of her in the next room, the thought that she might 
even hear me as I walked, the remembrance of my 


A COPY OF HEINECCIUS 237 


churlishness and that I must continue to practise the 
same ungrateful course or be dishonoured, put me 
beside my reason. I stood like a man between Scylla 
and Charybdis: What must she think of me? was my 
one thought that softened me continually into weak- 
ness. What is to become of us? the other which steeled 
me again to resolution. This was my first night of 
wakefulness and divided counsels, of which I was now 
to pass many, pacing like a madman, sometimes weep- 
ing hke a childish boy, sometimes praying (I would 
fain hope) hke a Christian. 

But prayer is not very difficult, and the hitch comes 
in practice. In her presence, and above all if I allowed 
any beginning of familiarity, I found I had very little 
command of what should follow. But to sit all day 
in the same room with her, and feign to be engaged 
upon Heineccius, surpassed my strength. So that I 
fell instead upon the expedient of absenting myself so 
much as I was able; taking out classes and sitting there 
regularly, often with small attention, the test of which 
I found the other day in a notebook of that period, 
where I had left off to follow an edifying lecture and 
actually scribbled in my book some very ill verses, 
though the Latinity is rather better than I thought I 
could ever have compassed. ‘The evil of this course 
was unhappily near as great as its advantage. I had 
the less time of trial, but I believe, while that time 
lasted, I was tried the more extremely. For she being 
so much left to solitude, she came to grect my return 
with an increasing fervour that came nigh to over- 
master me. These friendly offers I must barbarously 
east back; and my rejection sometimes wounded her so 
cruelly that I must unbend and seek to make it up to 
her in kindness. So that our time passed in ups and 
downs, tiffs and disappointments, upon the which I 
could almost say (if it may be said with reverence) 
that I was crucified. | 

The base of my trouble was Catriona’s extraordinary 
innocence, at which I was not so much surprised as 


238 DAVID BALFOUR 


filled with pity and admiration. She seemed to have 
no thought of our position, no sense of my struggles; 
welcomed any mark of my weakness with responsive 
joy; and when I was drove again to my retrenchments, 
did not always dissemble her chagrin. ‘There were 
times when I have thought to myself, ‘If she were over 
head in love, and set her cap to catch me, she would 
scarce behave much otherwise’; and then I would fall 
again into wonder at the simplicity of woman, from | 
whom I felt (in these moments) that I was not worthy 
to be descended. 

There was one point in particular on which our war- 
fare turned, and of all things, this was the question of 
her clothes. My baggage had soon followed me from 
Rotterdam, and hers from Helvoet. She had now, as 
it were, two wardrobes; and it grew to be understood 
between us (I could never tell how) that when she 
was friendly she would wear my clothes, and when 
otherwise her own. It was meant for a buffet, and 
(as it were) the renunciation of her gratitude; and 
I felt it so in my bosom, but was generally more wise 
than to appear to have observed the circumstance. 

Once, indeed, I was betrayed into a childishness 
greater than her own; it fell in this way. On my return 
from classes, thinking upon her devoutly with a great 
deal of love and a good deal of annoyance in the bar- 
gain, the annoyance began to fade away out of my 
mind; and spying in a window one of those forced 
flowers, of which the Hollanders are so skilled in the 
artifice, I gave way to an impulse and bought it for 
Catriona. I do not know the name of that flower, 
but it was of the pink colour, and I thought she would 
admire the same, and carried it home to her with a 
wonderful soft heart. I had left her in my clothes, and 
when I returned to find her all changed and a face to 
match, I cast but the one look at her from head to 
foot, ground my teeth together, flung the window open, 
and my flower into the court, and then (between rage 


A COPY OF HEINECCIUS 239 


and prudence) myself out of that room again, of which 
I slammed the door as I went out. 

-On the steep stair I came near falling, and this 
brought me to myself, so that I began at once to see 
the folly of my conduct. I went, not into the street 
as I had purposed, but to the house court, which was 
always a solitary place, and where I saw my flower 
(that had cost me vastly more than it was worth) 
hanging in the leafless tree. I stood by the side of 
the canal, and looked upon the ice. Country people 
went by on their skates, and I envied them. I could 
see no way out of the pickle I was in: no way so much 
as to return to the room I had just left. No doubt 
was in my mind but I had now betrayed the secret 
of my feelings; and to make things worse, I had 
shown at the same time (and that with wretched boy- 
ishness) incivility to my helpless guest. | 

I suppose she must have seen me from the open 
window. It did not seem to me that I had stood there 
very long before I heard the crunching of footsteps 
on the frozen snow, and turning somewhat angrily 
(for I was in no spirit to be interrupted) saw Catriona 
drawing near. She was all changed again, to the 
clocked stockings. 

“Are we not to have our walk to-day?” said she. 

I was looking at her in a maze. “Where is your 
brooch?” says I. 

She carried her hand to her bosom and coloured 
high. “TI will have forgotten it,” said she. “I will run 
upstairs for it quick, and then surely we’ll can have 
our walk?” 

There was a note of pleading in that last that 
staggered me; I had neither words nor voice to utter 
them; I could do no more than nod by way of answer; 
and the moment she had left me, climbed into the tree 
and recovered my flower, which on her return I offered 
her. 

“T bought it for you, Catriona,” said I. 


240 DAVID BALFOUR 


She fixed it in the midst of her bosom with the 
brooch, I could have thought tenderly. 

“Tt is none the better of my handling,” said I again, 
and blushed. 

“T will be liking it none the worse, you may be sure 
of that,” said she. 

We did not speak so much that day; she seemed 
a thought on the reserve, though not unkindly. As for 
me, all the time of our walking, and after we came 
home, and JI had seen her put my flower into a pot of 
water, I was thinking to myself what puzzles women 
were. I was thinking, the one moment, it was the most 
stupid thing on earth she should not have perceived 
my love; and the next, that she had certainly perceived 
it long ago, and (being a wise girl with the fine female 
instinct of propriety) concealed her knowledge. 

We had our walk daily. Out in the streets I felt 
more safe; I relaxed a little in my guardedness; and 
for one thing, there was no Heineccius. This made 
these periods not only a relief to myself, but a par- 
ticular pleasure to my poor child. When I came back 
about the hour appointed, I would generally find her 
ready dressed and glowing with anticipation. She 
would prolong their duration to the extreme, seeming 
to dread (as I did myself) the hour of the return; 
and there is scarce a field or waterside near Leyden, 
scarce a street or lane’ there, where we have not 
lingered. Outside of these, I bade her confine herself 
entirely to our lodgings; this in the fear of her en- 
countering any acquaintance, which would have 
rendered our position very difficult. From the same 
apprehension I would never suffer her to attend church, 
nor even go myself; but made some kind of shift to 
hold worship privately in our own chamber—I hope 
with an honest, but I am quite sure with a very much 
divided mind. Indeed, there was scarce anything that 
more affected me, than thus to kneel down alone with 
her before God like man and wife. 

One day it was snowing downright hard. I had 


A COPY OF HEINECCIUS 241 


thought it not possible that we should venture forth, 
and was surprised to find her waiting for me ready 
dressed. 

“T will not be doing without my walk,” she cried. 
“You are never a good boy, Davie, in the house; I 
will never be caring for you only in the open air. 
I think we two will better turn Egyptian and dwell 
by the roadside.” 

That was the best walk yet of all of them; she clung 
near to me in the falling snow; it beat about and 
melted on us, and the drops stood upon her bright 
cheeks like tears and ran into her smiling mouth. 
Strength seemed to come upon me with the sight lke 
a giant’s; I thought I could have caught her up and 
run with her into the uttermost places in the earth; 
and we spoke together all that time beyond belief 
for freedom and sweetness. 

It was dark night when we came to the house door. 


She pressed my arm upon her bosom. “Thank you 


kindly for these same good hours,” said she, on a deep 
note of her voice. 

The concern in which I fell instantly on this address, 
put me with the same swiftness on my guard; and we 
were no sooner in the chamber, and the light made, 
than she beheld the old, dour, stubborn countenance 
of the student of Heineccius. Doubtless she was more 
than usually hurt; and I know for myself, I found it 
more than usually difficult to maintain my strangeness. 
Even at the meal, I durst scarce unbuckle and scarce 
lift my eyes to her; and it was no sooner over than I 
fell again to my civilian, with more seeming abstrac- 
tion and less understanding than before. Methought, 
as I read, I could hear my heart strike like an eight- 
day clock. Hard as I feigned to study, there was still 
some of my eyesight that spilled beyond the book upon 
Catriona. She sat on the floor by the side of my great 
mail, and the chimney lighted her up, and shone and 
blinked upon her, and made her glow and darken 
through a wonder of fine hues. Now she would be 


242 DAVID BALFOUR 


gazing in the fire, and then again at me; and at that I 
would be plunged in a terror of myself, and turn 
the pages of Heineccius like a man looking for the text 
in church. 

Suddenly she called out aloud. ‘“O, why does not 
my father come?” she cried, and fell at once into a 
storm of tears. » 

I leaped up, flung Heineccius fairly in the fire, ran 
to her side, and cast an arm around her sobbing body. 

She put me from her sharply. “You do not love your 
friend,” says she. “I could be so happy too, if you 
would let me!” And then, “O, what will I have done 
that you should hate me so?” 

“Hate you!” cries I, and held her firm. “You blind 
lass, can you not see a little in my wretched heart? 
Do you think when I sit there, reading in that fool- 
book that I have just burned and be damned to it, 
I take ever the least thought of any stricken thing but 
just yourself? Night after night I could have grat to 
see you sitting there your lone. And what was I to 
do? You are here under my honour; would you punish 
me for that? Is it for that that you would spurn a 
loving servant?” 

At the word, with a small, sudden motion, she clung 
near to me. I raised her face to mine, I kissed it, and 
she bowed her brow upon my bosom, clasping me tight. 
I sat in a mere whirl like a man drunken. Then I 
heard her voice sound very small and muffled in my 
clothes. 

“Did you kiss her truly?” she asked. 

There went through me so great a heave of surprise 
that I was all shook with it. 

“Miss Grant!” I cried, all in a disorder. “Yes, I 
asked her to kiss me good-bye, the which she did.” | 

“Ah, well!” said she, “you have kissed me too, at — 
all events.” 

At the strangeness and sweetness of that word, I saw — 
where we had fallen; rose, and set her on her feet. 

“This will never do,” said I. “This will never, never — 





A COPY OF HEINECCIUS 243 


do. O Catrine, Catrine!”’ Then there came a pause 
in which I was debarred from any speaking. And then, 
“Go away to your bed,” said Il. “Go away to your 
bed and leave me.” 

She turned to obey me like a little child, and the next 
I knew of it, had stopped in the very doorway. 

“Good night, Davie!” said she. 

“And O, good night, my love!” I cried, with a great 
outbreak of my soul, and caught her to me again, so 
that it seemed I must have broken her. The next 
moment [ had thrust her from the room, shut to the 
door even with violence, and stood alone. 

The milk was spilt now, the word was out and the 
truth told. I had crept like an untrusty man into the 
poor maid’s affections; she was in my hand like any 
frail, innocent thing to make or mar; and what weapon. 
of defence was left me? It seemed like a symbol that 
Heineccius, my old protection, was now burned. I 
repented, yet could not find it in my heart to blame 
myself for that great failure. It seemed not possible 
to have resisted the boldness of her innocence or that 
last temptation of her weeping. And all that I had to 
excuse me did but make my sin appear the greater— 
it was upon a nature so defenceless, and with such 
advantages of the position, that I seemed to have 
practised. 

What was to become of us now? It seemed we could 
no longer dwell in the one place. But where was I to 
go? or where she? Without either choice or fault of 
ours, life had conspired to wall us together in that 
narrow place. I had a wild thought of marrying out of 
hand; and the next moment put it from me with revolt. 
She was a child, she could not tell her own heart; I had 
surprised her weakness, I must never go on to build 
on that surprisal; I must keep her not only. clear of 
reproach, but free as she had come to me. 

Down I sat before the fire, and reflected, and re- 
pented, and beat my brains in vain for any means of 
escape. About two of the morning, there were three 


244 DAVID BALFOUR 


red embers left and the house and all the city was 
asleep, when I was aware of a small sound of weeping 
in the next room. She thought that I slept, the poor 
soul; she regretted her weakness—and what perhaps 
(God help her!) she called her forwardness—and in 
the dead of the night solaced herself with tears. 
Tender and bitter feelings, love and penitence and pity, 
struggled in my soul; it seemed I was under bond to 
heal that weeping. 

“O, try to forgive me!” I cried out, “try, try to 
forgive me. Let us forget it all, let us try if we’ll no 
can forget it!” 

There came no answer, but the sobbing ceased. I 
stood a long while with my hands still clasped as I had 
spoken; then the cold of the night laid hold upon me 
with a shudder, and I think my reason reawakened. 

“You can make no hand of this, Davie,” thinks I. 
“To bed with you like a wise lad, and try if you can 
sleep. To-morrow you may see your way.” 


CHAPTER XXV 
THE RETURN OF JAMES MORE 


WAS called on the morrow out of a late and 

troubled slumber by a knocking on my door, ran 
to open it, and almost swooned with the contrariety of 
my feelings, mostly painful; for on the threshold, in 
a rough wraprascal and an extraordinary big laced hat, 
there stood James More. 

I ought to have been glad perhaps without admixture, 
for there was a sense in which the man came like an 
answer to prayer. I had been saying till my head was 
weary that Catriona and I must separate, and looking 
_ till my head ached for any possible means of separ- 
ation. Here were the means come to me upon two 
legs, and joy was the hindmost of my thoughts. It 
is to be considered, however, that even if the weight 
of the future were lifted off me by the man’s arrival, 
the present heaved up the more black and menacing; 
so that, as I first stood before him in my shirt and 
breeches, I believe I took a leaping step backward 
like a person shot. 

“Ah,” said he, “I have found you, Mr. Balfour.” 
And offered me his large, fine hand, the which (recover- 
ing at the same time my post in the doorway, as if 
with some thought of resistance) I took him by doubt- 
fully. “It is a remarkable circumstance how our affairs 
appear to intermingle,” he continued. “I am owing you 
an apology for an unfortunate intrusion upon yours, 
which I suffered myself to be entrapped into by my 
confidence in that false-face, Prestongrange; I think 
shame to own to you that I was ever trusting to a 
lawyer.” He shrugged his shoulders with a very 

245 


246 DAVID BALFOUR 


French air. ‘But indeed the man is very plausible,” 
says he. ‘And now it seems that you have busied your- 
self handsomely in the matter of my daughter, for 
whose direction I was remitted to yourself.” 

“I think, sir,’ said I, with a very painful air, “that 
it will be necessary we two should have an explana- 
tion.’ 

“There is nothing amiss?” he asked. “My agent, 
Mr. Sprott——” 

“For God’s sake, moderate your voice!” I cried. 
“She must not hear till we have had an explanation.” 

“She is in this place?” cries he. 

“That is her chamber door,” said I. 

“You are here with her alone?” he asked. 

‘And who else would I have got to stay with us?” 
cries I. 

} will do him the justice to admit that he turned 
pale. 

“This is very unusual,” said he, “This is a very 
unusual circumstance, You are right, we must hold an 
explanation.” 

So saying, he passed me by, and I must own the 
tall old rogue appeared at that moment extraordinary 
dignified. He had now, for the first time, the view of 
my chamber, which I scanned (I may say) with his 
eyes. A bit of morning sun glinted in by the window 
pane, and showed it off; my bed, my mails, and wash- 
ing dish, with some disorder of my clothes, and the 
unlighted chimney, made the only plenishing; no mis- 
take but it looked bare and cold, and the most un- 
suitable, beggarly place conceivable to harbour a young 
lady. At the same time came in on my mind the 
recollection of the clothes that I had bought for her; 
and I thought this contrast of poverty and prodigality 
bore an ill appearance. 

He looked all about the chamber for a seat, and | 
finding nothing else to his purpose except my bed, took ~ 
a place upon the side of it; where, after I had closed 
the door, I could not very well avoid joining him. For | 





THE RETURN OF JAMES MORE 247 


however this extraordinary interview might end, it 
must pass if possible without waking Catriona; and the 
one thing needful was that we should sit close and talk 
low. But I can scarce picture what a pair we made; 
he in his great coat which the coldness of my chamber 
made extremely suitable; I shivering in my shirt and 
breeks; he with very much the air of a judge; and I 
(whatever I looked) with very much the feelings of a 
man who has heard the last trumpet. 

“Well?” says he. 

And “Well,” I began, but found myself unable to go 
further. 

‘You tell me she is here?” said he again, but now 
with a spice of impatience that seemed to brace me up. 

“She is in this house,” said I, “and I knew the cir- 
cumstance would be called unusual. But you are to 
consider how very unusual the whole business was from 
the beginning. Here is a young lady landed on the 
coast of Europe with two shillings and a penny half- 
penny. She is directed to yon man Sprott in Helvoet. 
I hear you call him your agent. All I can say is he 
could do nothing but damn and swear at the mere 
mention of your name, and I must fee him out of my 
own pocket even to receive the custody of her effects. 
You speak of unusual circumstances, Mr. Drummond, 
if that be the name you prefer. Here was a circum- 
stance, if you like, to which it was barbarity to have 
exposed her.” 

“But this is what I cannot understand the least,” 
said James. “My daughter was placed into the charge 
of some responsible persons, whose names I have 
forgot.” | 

“Gebbie was the name,” said I; “and there is no 
doubt that Mr. Gebbie should have gone ashore with 
her at Helvoet. But he did not, Mr. Drummond; and 
I think you might praise God that I was there to offer 
in his place.” 

“T shall have a word to say to Mr. CGebbie before 
long,” said he. “As for yourself, I think it might have 


248 DAVID BALFOUR 


occurred that you were somewhat young for such a 
post.” 

“But the choice was not between me and somebody 
else, it was between me and nobody,” I cried. ‘No- 
body offered in my place, and I must say I think you 
show a very small degree of gratitude to me that did.” 

“T shall wait until I understand my obligation a 
little more in the particular,” says he. 

“Indeed, and I think it stares you in the face, then,” 
said I. “Your child was deserted, she was clean flung 
away in the midst of Europe, with scarce two shillings, 
and not two words of any language spoken there: I 
must say, a bonny business! I brought her to this 
place. I gave her the name and the tenderness due to 
a sister. All this has not gone without expense, but 
that I scarce need to hint at. They were services 
due to the young lady’s character which I respect; and 
I think it would be a bonny business too, if I was to 
be singing her praises to her father.” 

“You are a young man,” he began. 

: “So I hear you tell me,” said I, with a good deal of 
eat. 

“You are a very young man,” he repeated, ‘‘or you 
would have understood the significancy of the step.” 

“T think you speak very much at your ease,” cried I. 
“What else was Il todo? Itis a fact I might have hired 
some decent, poor woman to be a third to us, and I 
declare I never thought of it until this moment. But 
where was I to find her, that am a foreigner myself? 
And let me point out to your observation, Mr. Drum- 
mond, that it would have cost me money out of my 
pocket. For here is Just what it comes to, that I had 
to pay through the nose for your neglect; and there 
is only the one story to it, just that you were so un- 
loving and so careless as to have lost your daughter.” 

“He that lives in a glass house should not be casting 
stones,” says he; “and we will finish inquiring into 
the behaviour of Miss Drummond before we go on to 
sit in judgment on her father.” 


THE RETURN OF JAMES MORE 249 


“But I will be entrapped into no such attitude.” 
said I. ‘The character of Miss Drummond is far above 
inquiry, as her father ought to know. So is mine, and 
I am telling you that. There are but the two ways 
of it open. The one is to express your thanks to me as 
one gentleman to another, and to say no more. The 
other (if you are so difficult as to be still dissatisfied) 
is to pay me that which I have expended and be done.” 

He seemed to soothe me with a hand in the air. 
“There, there,” said he. “You go too fast, you go too 
fast, Mr. Balfour. It is a good thing that I have 
learned to be more patient. And I believe you forget 
that I have yet to see my daughter.” 

I began to be a little relieved upon this speech and 
a change in the man’s manner that I spied in him as 
soon as the name of money fell between us. 

“T was thinking it would be more fit—if you will 
excuse the plainness of my. dressing in your presence— 
that I should go forth and leave you to encounter her 
alone?” said I. 

“What I would have looked for at your hands!” says 
he; and there was no mistake but what he said it 
civilly. 

I thought this better and better still, and as I began 
to pull on my hose, recalling the man’s impudent 
mendicancy at Prestongrange’s, I determined to ay 
sue what seemed to be my victory. 

“Tf you have any mind to stay some while in Tey: 
den,” said I, “this room is very much at your disposal, 
and I can easy find another for myself: in which way 
we shall have the least amount of flitting possible, 
there being only one to change.” 

“Why, sir,” said he, making his bosom high, “I think 
no shame of a poverty I have come by in the service 
of my king; I make no secret that my affairs are quite 
involved; and for the moment, it would be even im- 
possible for me to undertake a journey.” 

“Until you have occasion to communicate with your 
friends,” said I, “perhaps it might be convenient for 


250 DAVID BALFOUR 


you (as of course it would be honourable to myself) 
if you were to regard yourself in the light of my 
guest?” 

“Sir,” said he, “when an offer is frankly made, I 
think it honour myself most to imitate that frankness. 
Your hand, Mr. David; you have the character that I 
respect the most; you are one of those from whom a 
gentleman can take a favour and no more words about 
it. I am an old soldier,’ he went on, looking rather 
disgusted-like around my chamber, “and you need not 
fear I shall prove burthen-some. I have ate too often 
at the dyke-side, drank of the ditch, and had no roof 
but the rain.” 

“T should be telling you,” said I, “that our breakfasts 
are sent customarily in about this time of morning. I 
propose I should go now to the tavern, and bid them 
add a cover for yourself and delay the meal the matter 
of an hour, which will give you an interval to meet 
your daughter in.” 

Methought his nostrils wagged at this. “O, an 
hour?” says he. “That is perhaps superfluous. Half 
an hour, Mr. David, or say twenty minutes; I shall 
do very well in that. And by the way,” he adds, de- 
taining me by the coat, “what is it you drink in the 
morning, whether ale or wine?” 

“To be frank with you, sir,” says I, “I drink nothing 

else but spare, cold water.” 
_ “Tut-tut,” says he, “that is fair destruction to the 
“stomach, take an old campaigner’s word for it. Our 
country spirit at home is perhaps the most entirely 
wholesome; but as that is not come-at-able, Rhenish 
or a white wine or Burgundy will be next best.” 

“T shall make it my business to see you are sup- 
plied,” said I. 

“Why, very good,” said he, “and we shall make a 
man of you yet, Mr. David.” 

By this time, I can hardly say that I was minding 
him at all, beyond an odd thought of the kind of 
father-in-law that he was like to prove; and all my 


THE RETURN OF JAMES MORE 251 


cares centred about the lass his daughter, to whom I 
determined to convey some warning of her visitor. I 
stepped to the door accordingly, and cried through the 
panels, knocking thereon at the same time: “Miss 
Drummond, here is your father come at last.” 

With that I went forth upon my errand, having (by 
two words) extraordinarily damaged my affairs. 


CHAPTER XXVI 
THE THREESOME 


HETHER or not I was to be so much blamed, or 

rather perhaps pitied, I must leave others to 
judge. My shrewdness (of which I have a good deal, 
too) seems not so great with the ladies. No doubt, at 
the moment when I awaked her, I was thinking a good 
deal of the effect upon James More; and similarly 
when [ returned and we were all sat down to break- 
fast, I continued to behave to the young lady with 
deference and distance; as I still think to have been 
most wise. Her father had cast doubts upon the 
innocence of my friendship; and these, it was my first 
business to allay. But there is a kind of an excuse 
for Catriona also. We had shared in a scene of some 
tenderness and passion, and given and received 
caresses; I had thrust her from me with violence; I 
had called aloud upon her in the night from the one 
room to the other; she had passed hours of wakeful- 
ness and weeping; and it is not to be supposed I had 
been absent from her pillow thoughts. Upon the back 
of this, to be awaked, with unaccustomed formality, 
under the name of Miss Drummond, and to be hence- 
forth used with a great deal of distance and respect, 
led her entirely in error on my private sentiments; 
and she was indeed so incredibly abused as to imagine 
me repentant and trying to draw off! 

The trouble betwixt us seems to have been this: that 
whereas I (since I had first set eyes on his great hat) 
thought singly of James More, his return and sus- 
picions, she made so little of these that I may say 
she scarce remarked them, and all her troubles and 

252 


THE THREESOME 253 


doings regarded what passed between us in the night 
before. This is partly to be explained by the inno- 
cence and boldness of her character, and partly because 
James More, having sped so ill in his interview with 
me, or had his mouth closed by my invitation, said no 
word to her upon the subject. At the breakfast, ac- 
cordingly, it soon appeared we were at cross purposes. 
I had looked to find her in clothes of her own: I found 
her (as if her father were forgotten) wearing some of 
the best that I had bought for her and which she 
knew (or thought) that I admired her in. I had 
looked to find her imitate my affectation of distance, 
and be most precise and formal; instead I found her 
flushed and wild-like, with eyes extraordinary bright, 
and a painful and varying expression, calling me by 
name with a sort of appeal of tenderness, and referring 
and deferring to my thoughts and wishes like an anxious 
or a suspected wife. 

But this was not for long. As I beheld her so re- 
gardless of her own interests, which I had jeopardised 
and was now endeavouring to recover, I redoubled 
my own coldness in the manner of a lesson to the 
girl. The more she came forward, the further I drew 
back; the more she betrayed the closeness of our 
intimacy, the more pointedly civil I became, until even 
her father (if he had not been so engrossed with eat- 
ing) might have observed the opposition. In the midst 
of which, of a sudden, she became wholly changed, and 
I told myself, with a good deal of relief, that she had 
took the hint at last. 

All day I was at my classes or in quest of my new 
lodging; and though the hour of our customary walk 
hung miserably on my hands, I cannot say but I was 
happy on the whole to find my way cleared, the girl 
again in proper keeping, the father satisfied or at least 
acquiescent, and myself free to prosecute my love with 
honour. At supper, as at all our meals, it was James 
More that did the talking. No doubt but he talked 
well, if anyone could have believed him. But I will 


254 DAVID BALFOUR 


speak of him presently more at large. The meal at an 
end, he rose, got his great-coat, and looking. (as I 
thought) at me, observed he had affairs abroad. I took 
this for a hint that I was to be going also, and got up; 
whereupon the girl, who had scarce given me greeting 
at my entrance, turned her eyes on me wide open, 
with a look that bade me stay. I stood between them 
like a fish out of water, turning from one to the other; 
neither seemed to observe me, she gazing on the floor, 
he buttoning his coat; which vastly swelled my em- 
barrassment. This appearance of indifference argued, 
upon her side, a good deal of anger very near to burst 
out. Upon his, I thought it horribly alarming; I made 
sure there was a tempest brewing there; and consider- 
ing that to be the chief peril; turning towards him and 
put myself (so to speak) in the man’s hands. 

“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Drummond?” 
says I. 

He stifled a yawn, which again I thought to be 
duplicity. “Why, Mr. David,” said he, “‘since you are 
so obliging as to propose it, you might show me the 
way to a certain tavern” (of which he gave the name) 
“where I hope to fall in with some old companions in 
arms.” 

There was no more to say, and I got my hat and 
cloak to bear him company. 

“And as for you,” says he to his daughter, “you had 
best go to your bed. I shall be late home, and Early 
to bed and early to rise, gars bonny lasses have bright 
eyes. 

Whereupon he kissed her with a good deal of tender- 
ness, and ushered me before him from the door. ‘This 
was so done (I thought on purpose) that it was scarce 
possible there should be any parting salutation; but I 
observed she did not look at me, and set it down to 
terror of James More. 

It was some distance to that tavern. He talked all 
the way of matters which did not interest me the 
smallest, and at the door dismissed me with empty 


THE THREESOME 255 


manners. Thence I walked to my new lodging, where 
I had not so much as a chimney to hold me warm, and 
no society but my own thoughts. These were still 
bright enough; I did not so much as dream that 
Catriona was turned against me; I thought we were 
like folk pledged; I thought we had been too near and 
spoke too warmly to be severed, least of all by what 
were only steps in a most needful policy. And the 
chief of my concern was only the kind of father-in-law 
that I was getting, which was not at all the kind I 
would have chosen: and the matter of how soon I 
ought to speak to him, which was a delicate point on 
several sides. In the first place, when I thought how 
young I was, I blushed all over, and could almost 
have found it in my heart to have desisted; only that 
if once I let them go from Leyden without explanation, 
I might lose her altogether. And in the second place, 
there was our very irregular situation to be kept in 
view, and the rather scant measure of satisfaction I had 
given James More that morning. I concluded, on the 
whole, that delay would not hurt anything, yet I would 
not delay too long neither; and got to my cold bed 
with a full heart. 
The next day, as James More seemed a little on the 
complaining hand in the matter of my chamber, I 
offered to have in more furniture; and coming in the 
afternoon, with porters bringing chairs and tables, 
found the girl once more left to herself. She greeted 
me on my admission civilly, but withdrew at once to 
her own room, of which she shut the door. I made 
my disposition, and paid and dismissed the men so 
that she might hear them go, when I supposed she 
would at once come forth again to speak to me. 1 
waited yet awhile, then knocked upon her door. 

“Catriona!” said I. 

The door was opened so quickly, even before I had 
the word out, that I thought she must have stood be- 
hind it listening. She remained there in the interval 


256 DAVID BALFOUR 


quite still; but she had a look that I cannot put a name 
on, as of one in a bitter trouble. 

“Are we not to have our walk to-day either?” so I 
faltered. 

“T am thanking you,” said she. “I will not be caring 
much to walk, now that my father is come home.” 

“But I think he has gone out himself and left you 
here alone,” said I. | 

“And do you think that was very kindly said?” she 
asked. 

“Tt was not unkindly meant,” I replied. “What 
ails you, Catriona? What have I done to you that 
you should turn from me like this?” 

“T do not turn from you at all,” she said, speaking 
very carefully. “I will ever be grateful to my friend 
that was good to me; I will ever be his friend in all 
that I am able. But now that my father James More 
is come again, there is a difference to be made, and 
I think there are some things said and done that would 
be better to be forgotten. But I will ever be your 
friend in all that I am able, and if that is not all 
that 00. vi af ites mot ‘so\much way! sony Not ithat 
you will be caring! But I would not have you think 
of me too hard. It was true what you said to me, 
that I was too young to be advised, and I am hoping 
you will remember I was just a child. I would not like 
to lose your friendship, at all events.” 

She began this very pale; but before she was done, 
the blood was in her face like scarlet, so that not her 
words only, but her face and the trembling of her 
very hands, besought me to be gentle. I saw, for the 
first time, how very wrong I had done to place the 
child in that position, where she had been entrapped 
into a moment’s weakness, and now stood before me 
like a person shamed. 

“Miss Drummond,” I said, and stuck, and made the 
same beginning once again, “I wish you could see into 
my heart,” I cried. “You would read there that my 
respect is undiminished. If that were possible, I should 


THE THREESOME 257 


say it was increased. This is but the result of the 
mistake we made; and had to come; and the less said 
of it now the better. Of all our life here, I promise 
you it shall never pass my lips; I would like to promise 
you too that I would never think of it, but it’s a mem- 
ory that will be always dear to me. And as for a 
friend, you have one here that would die for you.” 

“T am thanking you,” said she. 

We stood awhile silent, and my sorrow for myself 
began to get the upper hand; for here were all my 
dreams come to a sad tumble, and my love lost, and 
myself alone again in the world as at the beginning. 

“Well,” said I, “we shall be friends always, that’s 
a certain thing. But this is a kind of a farewell too: 
it’s a kind of a farewell after all; I shall always ken 
Miss Drummond, but this is a farewell to my 
Catriona.” 

T looked at her; I could hardly say I saw her, but 
she seemed to row great and brighten in my eyes; 
and with that I suppose I must have lost my head, for 
I called out her name again and made a step at her 
with my hands reached forth. 

She shrank back like a person struck, her face 
flamed; but the blood sprang no faster up into her 
cheeks, than what it flowed back upon my own heart, 
at sight of it, with penitence and concern. I found no 
words to excuse myself, but bowed before her very 
deep, and went my ways out of the house with death 
in my bosom. 

I think it was about five days that followed without 
any change. I saw her scarce ever but at meals, and 
then of course in the company of James More. If we 
were alone even for a moment, I made it my devoir 
to behave the more distantly and to multiply re- 
spectful attentions, having always in my mind’s eye 
that picture of the girl shrinking and flaming in a blush, 
and in my heart more pity for her than I could depict 
in words. I was sorry enough for myself, I need not 
dwell on that, having fallen at my length and more 


258 DAVID BALFOUR 


than all my height in a few seconds; but, indeed, I was 
near as sorry for the girl, and sorry enough to be scarce 
angry with her save by fits and starts. Her plea was 
good: she was but a child; she had been placed in an 
unfair position; if she had deceived herself and me, it 
was no more than was to have been looked for. 

And for another thing she was now very much alone. 
Her father, when he was by, was rather a caressing 
parent; but he was very easy led away by his affairs 
and pleasures, neglected her without compunction or 
remark, spent his nights in taverns when he had the 
money, which was more often than I could at all 
account for; and even in the course of these few days, 
failed once to come to a meal, which Catriona and I 
were at last compelled to partake of without him. It 
was the evening meal, and I left immediately that I 
had eaten, observing I supposed she would prefer to 
be alone; to which she agreed and (strange as it may 
seem) I quite believed her. Indeed, I thought myself 
but an eyesore to the girl, and a reminder of a mo- 
ment’s weakness that she now abhorred to think of. 
So she must sit alone in that room where she and I 
had been so merry, and in the blink of that chimney 
whose light had shone upon our many difficult and 
tender moments. There she must sit alone, and think 
of herself as of a maid who had most unmaidenly 
proffered her affections and had the same rejected. 
And in the meanwhile I would be alone some other 
place, and reading myself (whenever I was tempted to 
be angry) lessons upon human frailty and female 
delicacy. And altogether I suppose there were never 
two poor fools made themselves more unhappy in @ 
greater misconception. 

As for James, he paid not so much heed to us, or to 
anything in nature but his pocket, and his belly, and — 
his own prating talk. Before twelve hours were gone © 
he had raised a small loan of me; before thirty, he © 
had asked for a second and been refused. Money — 
and refusal he took with the same kind of high © 


THE THREESOME 259 


-good-nature. Indeed, he had an outside air of magna- 
nimity that was very well fitted to impose upon a daugh- 
ter; and the light in which he was constantly presented 
in his talk, and the man’s fine presence and great ways 
went together pretty harmoniously. So that a man 
that had no business with him, and either very little 
penetration or a furious deal of prejudice, might almost 
have been taken in. To me, after my first two inter- 
views, he was as plain as print; I saw him to be 
perfectly selfish, with a perfect innocency in the same; 
and I would harken to his swaggering talk (of arms, 
and “an old soldier,” and “a poor Highland gentleman,” 
and “the strength of my country and my dipbioants as 
I might to the babbling of a parrot. 

The odd thing was that I fancy he believed some 
part of it himself, or did at times; I think he was so 
false all through ‘that he scarce knew when he was 
lying; and for one thing, his moments of dejection 
must have been wholly genuine. ‘There were times 
when he would be the most silent, affectionate, clinging 
creature possible, holding Catriona’s hand like a big 
baby, and begging of me not to leave if I had any 
love to him; of which, indeed, I had none, but all the 
more to his daughter. He would press and indeed 
beseech us to entertain him with our talk, a thing very 
difficult in the state of our relations; and again break 
forth in pitiable regrets for his own land and friends, 
or into Gaelic singing. 

“This igs one of the melancholy airs of my native 
land,” he would say. “You may think it strange 
to see a soldier weep, and indeed it is to make a near 
friend of you,” says he. “But the notes of this singing 
are in my blood, and the words come out of my heart. 
And when I mind upon my red mountains and the 
wild birds calling there, and the brave streams of water 
running down, I would scarce think shame to weep 
before my enemies.” ‘Then he would sing again, and 
translate to me pieces of the song, with a great deal 
of boggling and much expressed contempt against the 


260 DAVID BALFOUR 


English language. “It says here,” he would say, “that 
the sun is gone down, and the battle is at an end, 
and the brave chiefs are defeated. And it tells here 
how the stars see them fleeing into strange countries or 
lying dead on the red mountains: and they will never 
more shout the call of battle or wash their feet in the 
streams of the valley. But if you had only some of 
this language, you would weep also because the words 
of it are beyond all expression, and it is mere mockery 
to tell you it in English.” 

Well, I thought there was a good deal of mockery 
in the business, one way and another; and yet, there 
was some feeling too, for which I hated him, I think, 
the worst of all. And it used to cut me to the quick 
to see Catriona so much concerned for the old rogue, 
and weeping herself to see him weep, when I was sure 
one half of his distress flowed from his last night’s 
drinking in some tavern. There were times when I 
was tempted to lend him a round sum, and see the last 
of him for good; but this would have been to see the 
last of Catriona as well, for which I was scarcely so 
prepared; and besides, it went against my conscience 
to squander my good money on one who was so little 
of a husband, 


CHAPTER XXVII 


A TWOSOME 


BELIEVE it was about the fifth day, and I know 

at least that James was in one of his fits of gloom, 
when I received three letters. The first was from Alan, 
offering to visit me in Leyden; the other two were 
eut of Scotland and prompted by the same affair, which 
was the death of my uncle and my own complete ac- 
cession to my rights. MRankeillor’s was, of course, 
wholly in the business view; Miss Grant’s was like 
herself, a little more witty than wise, full of blame to 
me for not having written (though how was I to write 
with such intelligence?) and of rallying talk about 
Catriona, which it cut me to the quick to read in her 
very presence. 

For it was of course in my own rooms that I found 
them, when I came to dinner, so that I was surprised 
out of my news in the very first moment of reading it. 
This made a welcome diversion for all three of us, nor 
could any have foreseen the ill consequences that en- 
sued. It was accident that brought the three letters the 
same day, and that gave them into my hand in the 
same room with James More; and of all the events that 
flowed from that accident, and which I might have 
prevented if I had held my tongue, the truth is that 
they were preordained before Agricola came into Scot- 
land or Abraham set out upon his travels. 

The first that I opened was naturally Alan’s; and 
what more natural than I should comment on his 
design to visit me? but I observed James to sit up with 
an air of immediate attention. 

“Ts that not Alan Breck that was suspected of the 
Appin accident?” he inquired. 

261 


262 DAVID BALFOUR 


I told him, “Ay,” it was the same; and he withheld 
me some time from my other letters, asking of our 
acquaintance, of Alan’s manner of life in France, of 
which I knew very little, and further of his visit as 
now proposed. 

“All we forfeited folk hang a little together,” he 
explained, “and besides I know the gentleman: and 
though his descent is not the thing, and indeed he has 
no true right to use the name of Stewart, he was very 
much admired in the day of Drummossie. He did there 
like a soldier; if some that need not be named had done 
as well, the upshot need not have been so melancholy 
to remember. There were two that did their best that 
day, and it makes a bond between the pair of us,” 
says he. 

I could scarce refrain from shooting out my tongue 
at him, and could almost have wished that Alan had 
been there to have inquired a little further into that 
mention of his birth. Though, they tell me, the same 
was indeed not wholly regular. 

Meanwhile, I had opened Miss Grant’s, and could 
not withhold an exclamation. 

“Catriona,” I cried, forgetting, the first time since 
her father was arrived, to address her by a handle, “I 
am come into my kingdom fairly, I am the laird of 
Shaws indeed—my uncle is dead at last.” 

She clapped her hands together leaping from her 
seat. The next moment it must have come over both 
of us at once what little cause of joy was left to either, 
and we stood opposite, staring on each other sadly. 

But James showed himself a ready hypocrite. “My 
daughter,” says he, “is that how my cousin learned you 
to behave? Mr. David has lost a near friend, and we 
should first condole with him on his bereavement.” 

“Troth, sir,’ said I, turning to him in a, kind of 
anger, “I can make no such faces. His death is as 
blithe news as ever I got.” 

“Tt’s a good soldier’s philosophy,” says James. “ ’Tis 
the way of flesh, we must all go, all go. And if the 


A TWOSOME 263 


gentleman was so far from your favour, why, very 
well! But we may at least congratulate you on your 
accession to your estates.” 

“Nor can I say that either,” I replied, with the 
same heat. “It is a good estate; what matters that to 
a lone man that has enough already? I had a good 
revenue before in my frugality; and but for the man’s 
death—which gratifies me, shame to me that must 
confess it!—I see not how anyone is to be bettered 
by this change.” | 

“Come, come,” said he, “you are more affected than 
you let on, or you would never make yourself out so 
lonely. Here are three letters; that means three that 
wish you well; and I could name two more, here in this 
very chamber. I have known you not so very long, 
but Catriona, when we are alone, is never done with 
the singing of your praises.” 

She looked up at him, a little wild at that; and he 
slid off at once into another matter, the extent of my 
estate, which (during the most of the dinner time) he 
continued to dwell upon with interest. But it was to 
no purpose he dissembled; he had touched the matter 
with too gross a hand: and I knew what to expect. 
Dinner was scarce ate when he plainly discovered his 
designs. He reminded Catriona of an errand, and bid 
her attend to it. “I do not see you should be gone 
beyond the hour,” he added, “and friend David will be 
good enough to bear me company till you return.” 
She made haste to obey him without words. I do not 
know if she understood, I believe not; but 1 was com- 
pletely satisfied, and sat strengthening my mind for 
what should follow. 

The door had scarce closed behind her departure, 
when the man leaned back in his chair and addressed 
me with a good affectation of easiness. Only the one 
thing betrayed him, and that was his face; which 
suddenly shone all over with fine points of sweat. 

“T am rather glad to have a word alone with you,” 
says he, “because in our first interview there were some 


264 DAVID BALFOUR 


expressions you misapprehended and I have long meant 
to set you right upon. My daughter stands beyond 
doubt. So do you, and I would make that good with 
my sword against all gainsayers. But, my dear David, 
this world is a censorious place—as who should 
know it better than myself, who have lived ever since 
the days of my late departed father, God sain him! 
in a perfect spate of calumnies? We have to face to 
that; you and me have to consider of that; we have to 
consider of that.” And he wagged his head like a 
minister in a pulpit. 

“To what effect, Mr. Drummond?” said I. “I 
would be obliged to you if you would approach your 
point.” 

“Ay, ay,” says he, laughing, “like your character 
indeed; and what I most admire in it. But the point, 
my worthy fellow, is sometimes in a kittle bit.” He 
filled a glass of wine. “Though between you and me, 
that are such fast friends, it need not bother us long. 
The point, I need scarcely tell you, is my daughter. 
And the first thing is that I have no thought in my 
mind of blaming you. In the unfortunate circum- 
stances, what could you do else? ‘Deed, and I cannot 
tell.” 

A Soli you for that,” said I, pretty close upon my 
guard. 

“T have besides studied your character,’ he went 
on; “‘your talents are fair; you seem to have a moderate 
competence, which does no harm; and one thing with 
another, I am very happy to have to announce to you 
that I have decided on the latter of the two ways 
open.” 

“T am afraid I am dull,” said I. “What ways are 
these?” 

He bent his brows upon me formidably and un- 
crossed his legs. “Why, sir,” says he, “I think I need 
scarce describe them to a gentleman of your condition: 
either that I should cut your throat or that you should 
marry my daughter.” 


A TWOSOME 265 


“You are pleased to be quite plain at last,” said I. 

“And I believe I have been plain from the begin- 
ning!” cries he robustiously. “I am a careful parent, 
Mr. Balfour; but I thank God, a patient and deleeb- 
erate man. There is many a father, sir, that would 
have hirsled you at once to the altar or the field. My 
esteem for your character uf 

“Mr. Drummond,” I interrupted, “if you have any 
esteem for me at all, I will beg of you to moderate 
your voice. It is quite needless to rowt at a gentle- 
man in the same chamber with yourself and lending 
you his best attention.” 

“Why, very true,” says he, with an immediate 
change. ‘And you must excuse the agitations of a 
parent.” 

“{ understand you then,” I continued—‘for I will 
take no note of your other alternative, which perhaps 
it was pity you let fall—l understand you rather to 
offer me encouragement in case I should desire to apply 
for your daughter’s hand?” 

“It is not possible to express my meaning better,” 
said he, “and I see we shall do well together.” 

“That remains to be yet seen,” said I. “But so much 
I need make no secret of, that I bear the lady you refer 
to the most tender affection, and I could not fancy, 
even in a dream, a better fortune than to get her.” 

“T was sure of it, I felt certain of you, David,” he 
cried, and reached out his hand to me. 

I put it by. “You go too fast, Mr. Drummond,” 
said I. ‘There are conditions to be made; and there 
is a difficulty in the path, which I see not entirely how 
we shall come over. I have told you that, upon my 
side, there is no objection to the marriage, but I have 
good reason to believe there will be much on the 
young lady’s.” 

“This is all beside the mark,” says he. “I will 
engage for her acceptance.” 

“T think you forget, Mr. Drummond,” said I, “that, 
even in dealing with myself you have been betrayed 





266 DAVID BALFOUR 


into two-three unpalatable expressions. I will have 
none such employed to the young lady. I am here to 
speak and think for the two of us; and I give you to 
understand that I would no more let a wife be forced 
upon myself, than what I would let a husband be 
forced on the young lady.” 

He sat and glowered at me like one in doubt and a 
good deal of temper. 

“So that this is to be the way of it,” I concluded. 
“T will marry Miss Drummond, and that blithely, if 
she is entirely willing. But if there be the least un- 
willingness, as I have reason to fear—marry her will I 
never.” 

“Well, well,” said he, “this is a small affair. As soon 
as she returns I will sound her a bit, and hope to 
reassure you: sf 

But I cut in again. ‘‘Not a finger of you, Mr. Drum- 
mond, or I ery off, and you can seek a husband to your 
daughter somewhere else,” said I. “It is I that am to 
be the only dealer and the only judge. I shall satisfy 
myself exactly; and none else shall anyways meddle— 
you least of all.” 

“Upon my word, sir!” he exclaimed, “and who are 
you to be the judge?” 

“The bridegroom, I believe,” said I. 

“This is to quibble,” he cried. “‘You turn your back 
upon the facts. The girl, my daughter, has no choice 
left to exercise. Her character is gone.” 

“And I ask your pardon,” said I, “‘but while this 
matter lies between her and you and me, that is not 
Ont 

“What security have I!” he cried. “Am I to let 
my daughter’s reputation depend upon a chance?” 

“You should have thought of all this long ago,” said 
I, “before you were so misguided as to lose her; and 
not afterwards, when it is quite too late. I refuse to 
regard myself as any way accountable for your neg- - 
lect, and I will be browbeat by no man living. My 
mind is quite made up, and come what may, I will 





A TWOSOME 267 


not depart from it a hair’s breadth. You and me are 
to sit here in company till her return; upon which, 
without either word or look from you, she and [I are 
to go forth again to hold our talk. If she can satisfy 
me that she is willing to this step, I will then make it; 
and if she cannot, I will not.” 

He leaped out of his seat like a man stung. “I can 
spy your manceuvre,” he cried; “you would work upon 
her to refuse!” 

“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” said I. “That is the 
way it is to be, whatever.” 

“And if I refuse?” cries he. 

“Then, Mr. Drummond, it will have to come to the 
throat-cutting,” said I. 

What with the size of the man, his great length of 
arm in which he came near rivalling his father, and his 
reputed skill at weapons, I did not use this word with- 
out some trepidation, to say nothing at. all of the cir- 
cumstance that he was Catriona’s father. But I might 
have spared myself alarms. From the poorness of my 
lodging—he does not seem to have remarked his 
daughter’s dresses, which were indeed all equally new 
to him—and from the fact that I had shown myself 
averse to lend, he had embraced a strong idea of my 
poverty. The sudden news of my estate convinced 
him of his error, and he had made but the one bound 
of it on this fresh venture, to which he was now so 
wedded, that I believe he would have suffered any- 
thing rather than fall to the alternative of fighting. 

A little while longer he continued to dispute with 
me, until I hit upon a word that silenced him. 

“Tf I find you so averse to let me see the lady by 
herself,” said I, “I must suppose you have very good 
grounds to think me in the right about her unwilling- 
ness.”’ 

He gabbled some kind of an excuse. 

“But all this is very exhausting to both of our 


268 DAVID BALFOUR 


tempers,” I added, “and I think we would do better to 
preserve a judicious silence.” 

The which we did until the girl returned, and I must 
suppose would have cut a very ridiculous figure had 
there been any there to view us. 


CHAPTHR: XX VEL 
IN WHICH I AM LEFT ALONE 


OPENED the door to Catriona and stopped her on 

the threshold. 

“Your father wishes us to take our walk,” said I. 

She looked to James More, who nodded, and at that, 
like a trained soldier, she turned to go with me. 

We took one of our old ways, where we had gone 
often, together, and been more happy than I can tell 
of in the past. I came a half a step behind, so that I 
could watch her unobserved. The knocking of her little 
shoes upon the way sounded extraordinarily pretty and 
sad; and I thought it a strange moment that I should 
be so near both ends of it at once, and walk in the 
midst between two destinies, and could not tell whether 
I was hearing these steps for the last time, or whether 
the sound of them was to go in and out with me 
till death should part us. 

She avoided even to look at me, only walked before 
her, like one who had a guess of what was coming. I 
saw I must speak soon before my courage was run 
out, but where to begin I knew not. In this painful 
situation, when the girl was as good as forced into my 
arms and had already besought my forbearance, any 
excess of pressure must have seemed indecent; yet 
to avoid it wholly would have a very cold-like appear- 
ance. Between these extremes I stood helpless, and 
could have bit my fingers; so that, when at last I 
managed to speak at all, it may be said I spoke at 
random. 

“Catriona,” said I, “I am in a very painful situation; 
or rather, so we are ‘both; and I would be a good deal 

"269 


270 DAVID BALFOUR 


obliged to you if you would promise to let me speak 
through first of all, and not to interrupt till I have 
done.” 

She promised me that simply. 

“Well,” said I, “this that I have got to say is very 
difficult, and I know very well I have no right to be 
saying it. After what passed between the two of us 
last Friday, I have no manner of right. We have got so 
ravelled up (and all by my fault) that I know very 
well the least I could do is just to hold my tongue, 
which was what I intended fully, and there was nothing 
further from my thoughts than to have troubled you 
again. But, my dear, it has become merely necessary, 
and no way by it. You see, this estate of mine has 
fallen in, which makes of me rather a better match; 
and the—the business would not have quite the same 
ridiculous-like appearance that it would before. Be- 
sides which, it’s supposed that our affairs have got 
so-much ravelled up (as I was saying) that it would 
be better to let them be the way they are. In my view, 
this part of the thing is vastly exaggerate, and if I were 
you I would not wear two thoughts on it. Only it’s 
right I should mention the same, because there’s no 
doubt it has some influence on James More. Then I 
think we were none so unhappy when we dwelt together 
in this town before. I think we did pretty well to- 
gether. If you would look back, my dear. 4 

“T will look neither back nor forward,” she inter- 
rupted. ‘Tell me the one thing; this is my father’s 
doing?” ; 

“He approves of it,” said I. “He approved that I 
should ask your hand in marriage,” and was going on 
again with somewhat more of an appeal upon her feel- 
ings but she marked me not, and struck into the midst. 

“He told you to!” she cried. “It is no sense denying 
it, you said yourself that there was nothing farther 
from your thoughts. He told you to.” 

“He spoke of it the first, if that is what you mean,” 
T began. 





I AM LEFT ALONE 271 


She was walking ever the faster, and looking fair in 
front of her; but at this she made a little noise in her 
head, and I thought she would have run. 

“Without which,” I went on, “after what you said 
last Friday, I would never have been so troublesome 
as make the offer. But when he as good as asked me, 
what was I to do?” 

She stopped and turned round upon me. 

“Well, it is refused at all events,’ she cried, “and 
there will be an end of that.” 

And she began again to walk forward. 

“T suppose I could expect no better,” said I, “but 
I think you might try to be a little kind to me for the 
last end of it. I see not why you should be harsh. 
I have loved you very well, Catriona—no harm that I 
should call you so for the last time. I have done the 
best that I could manage, I am trying the same still, 
and only vexed that I can do no better. It is a strange 
thing to me that you can take any pleasure to be hard 
to me.” 

“T am not thinking of you,” said she, “I am thinking 
of that man, my father.” 

“Well, and that way, too!” said I. “I cam be of use 
to you that way, too; I will have to be. It is very 
needful, my dear, that we should consult about your 
father; for the way this talk has gone, an angry man 
will be James More.” 

She stopped again. “It is because I am disgraced?”. 
_ she asked. 

“That is what he is thinking,” I replied, “but I have 
told you already to make nought of it.” 

“Tt will be all one to me,” she cried. “I prefer to be 
disgraced!” 

I did not know very well what to answer, and stood 
silent. 

There seemed to be something working in her 
bosom after that last ery; presently she broke out, 
“And what is the meaning of all this? Why is all this 


272 DAVID BALFOUR 


shame loundered on my head? How could you dare it, 
David Balfour?” 

“My dear,” said I, “what else was I to do?” 

“T am not your dear,” said she, “and I defy you to 
be calling me these words.” 

“T am not thinking of my words,” said I. “My heart 
bleeds for you, Miss Drummond. Whatever I may say, 
be sure you have my pity in your difficult position. 
But there is just the one thing that I wish you would 
bear in view, if it was only long enough to discuss 
it quietly; for there is going to be a collieshangie when 
we two get home. Take my word for it, it will need the 
two of us to make this matter end in peace.” 

“Ay,” said she. There sprang a patch of red in 
either of her cheeks. “Was he for fighting you?” said 
she. 

“Well, he was that,” said I. 

She gave a dreadful kind of laugh. “At all events, 
it is complete!” she cried. And then turning on me: 
“My father and I are a fine pair,” said she, “but I am 
thanking the good God there will be somebody worse 
than what we are. I am thanking the good God that 
He has let me see you so. There will never be the girl 
made that would not scorn you.” 

I had borne a good deal pretty patiently, but this 
was over the mark. 

“You have no right to speak to me like that,” said I. 
“What have I done but to be good to you, or try to 
be? And here is my repayment! O, it is too much.” 

She kept looking at me with a hateful smile. 
“Coward!” said she. 

“The word in your throat and in your father’s!” 
I cried. “I have dared him this day already in your — 
interest. I will dare him again, the nasty pole-cat; 
little I care which of us should fall! Come,” said I, 
“back to the house with us; let us be done with it, let 
me be done with the whole Hieland crew of you! You 
will see what you think when I am dead.” 


I AM LEFT ALONE 273 


She shook her head at me with that same smile I 
could have struck her for. 

“QO, smile away!’ I cried. “I have seen your bonny 
father smile on the wrong side this day. Not that I 
mean he was afraid, of course,” I added hastily, “but 
he preferred the other way of it.” 

“What is this?” she asked. 

“When I offered to draw with him,” said I. 

“You offered to draw upon James More?” she cried. 

“And I did so,” said I, “and found him backward 
enough, or how would we be here?” 

“There is a meaning upon this,” said she. ‘What 
is it you are meaning?” 

“He was to make you take me,” I replied, “and I 
would not have it. I said you should be free, and I 
must speak with you alone; little I supposed it would 
be such a speaking! ‘And what if I refuse?’ says he. 
—Then it must come to the throat-cutting, says I, 
‘for I will no more have a husband forced on that 
young lady, than what I would have a wife forced upon 
myself. These were my words, they were a friend’s 
words; bonnily have I been paid for them! Now you 
have refused me of your own clear free will, and there 
lives no father in the Highlands, or out of them, that 
ean force on this marriage. I will see that your wishes 
are respected; I will make the same my business, as 
I have all through. But I think you might have that 
decency as to affect some gratitude. ’Deed, and I 
thought you knew me better! I have not behaved 

quite well to you, but that was weakness. And to 
think me a coward, and such a coward as that—O, my 
lass, there was a stab for the last of it!” 

“Davie, how would I guess?” she cried. “O, this is 
a dreadful business! Me and mine,’—she gave a kind 
of wretched cry at the word—“me and mine are not 
fit to speak to you. O, I could be kneeling down to 
you in the street, I could be kissing your hands for 
your forgiveness!” 

“T will keep the kisses I have got from you already,” 


274 DAVID BALFOUR 


cried I. ‘I will keep the ones I wanted and that were 
something worth; I will not be kissed in penitence.” 

“What can you be thinking of this miserable girl?” 
says she. 

“What I am trying to tell you all this while!” said 
I, “that you had best leave me alone, whom you can 
make no more unhappy if you tried, and turn your 
attention to James More, your father, with whom you 
are like to have a queer pirn to wind.” 

“QO, that I must be going out into the world alone 
with such a man!” she cried, and seemed to catch her- 
self in with a great effort. ‘But trouble yourself no 
more for that,” said she. “He does not know what 
kind of nature is in my heart. He will pay me dear 
for this day of it; dear, dear, will he pay.” 

She turned, and began to go home and I to accom- 
pany her. At which she stopped. 

“T will be going alone,” she said. “It is alone I must 
be seeing him.” 

Some little while I raged about the streets, and told 
myself I was the worst used lad in Christendom. 
Anger choked me; it was all very well for me to 
breathe deep; it seemed there was not air enough about 
Leyden to supply me, and I thought I would have 
burst like a man at the bottom of the sea. I stopped 
and laughed at myself at a street corner a minute to- 
gether, laughing out loud, so that a passenger looked 
at me, which brought me to myself. 

“Well,” I thought, “I have been a gull and a ninny 
and a soft Tommy long enough. Time it was done. 
Here is a good lesson to have nothing to do with that 
accursed sex, that was the ruin of the man in the be- 
ginning and will be so to the end. God knows I was 
happy enough before ever I saw her; God knows I 
can be happy enough again when I have seen the last 
of her.” : 

That seemed to me the chief affair: to see them go. 
I dwelled upon the idea fiercely; and presently slipped 
on, in a kind of malevolence, to consider how very 


IT AM LEFT ALONE 275 


' poorly they were like to fare when Davie Balfour was 
no longer by to be their milk-cow; at which, to my own 
very great surprise, the disposition of my mind turned 
bottom up. I was still angry; I still hated her; and 
yet I thought 1 owed it to myself that she should suffer 
nothing. 

This carried me home again at once, where I found 
the mails drawn out and ready fastened by the door, 
and the father and daughter with every mark upon 
them of a recent disagreement. Catriona was like a 
wooden doll; James More breathed hard, his face was 
dotted with white spots, and his nose upon one side. 
As soon as I came in, the girl looked at him with a 
steady, clear, dark look that might very well have 
been followed by a blow. It was a hint that was more 
contemptuous than a command, and I was surprised to 
see James More accept it. It was plain he had had 
a master talking-to; and I could see there must be 
more of the devil in the girl than I had guessed, and 
mort good-humour about the man than I had given him 
the credit of. 

He began, at least, calling me Mr. Balfour, and 
plainly speaking from a lesson; but he got not very 
far, for at the first pompous swell of his voice, Catriona 
cut in. 

“T will tell you what James More is meaning,” said 
she. ‘‘He means we have come to you, beggar-folk, 
and have not behaved to you very well, and we are 
ashamed of our ingratitude and ill-behaviour. Now 
we are wanting to go away and be forgotten; and my 
father will have guided his gear so ill, that we cannot 
even do that unless you will give us some more alms. 
For that is what we are, at all events, beggar-folk and 
scorners.” 

“By your leave, Miss Drummond,” said I, “I must 
speak to your father by myself.” 

She went into her own room and shut the door, with- 
out a word or a look. 


276 DAVID BALFOUR 


“You. must excuse her, Mr. Balfour,’ says James 
More. ‘She has no delicacy.” 

“T am not here to discuss that with you,” said I, 
“but to be quit of you. And to that end I must talk 
of your position. Now, Mr. Drummond, I have kept 
the run of your affairs more closely than you bargained 
for. I know you had money of your own when you 
were borrowing mine. I know you have had more since 
you were here in Leyden, though you concealed it even 
from your daughter.” 

“T bid you beware. I will stand no more baiting,” 
he broke out. “I am sick of her and you. What kind 
of a damned trade is this to be a parent! I have 
had expressions used to me——” There he broke off. 

“Sir, this is the heart of a soldier and a parent,” 
he went on again, laying his hand on his bosom, 
“outraged in both characters—and I bid you beware.” 

“Tf you would have let me finish,” says I, “you would 
have found I spoke for your advantage.” 

“My dear friend,” he cried, “I know I might have 
relied upon the generosity of your character.” 

“Man! will you let me speak?” said I. ‘The fact 
is that I cannot win to find out if you are rich or 
poor. But it is my idea that your means, as they are 
mysterious in their source, so they are something in- 
sufficient in amount; and I do not choose your daughter 
to be lacking. If I durst speak to herself, you may be 
certain I would never dream of trusting it to you; be- 
cause I know you like the back of my hand, and all 
your blustering talk is that much wind to me. How- 
ever, I believe in your way you do still care something 
for your daughter after all; and I must just be doing — 
with that ground of confidence, such as it is.” 

Whereupon, I arranged with him that he was to com- 
municate with me, as to his whereabouts and Catriona’s 
welfare, in consideration of which I was to serve him a 
small stipend. 

He heard the business out with a great deal of eager- 
ness; and when it was done, “My dear fellow, my dear 


I AM LEFT ALONE 277 


' gon,” he cried out, “this is more like yourself than 
any of it yet! I will serve you with a soldier’s faith- 
fulness——” 

“Tet me hear no more of it!” says I. “You have 
got me to that pitch that the bare name of soldier 
rises on my stomach. Our traffic is settled; I am now 
going forth and will return in one half-hour, when I 
expect to find my chambers purged of you.” 

I gave them good measure of time; it was my one 
fear that I might see Catriona again, because tears 
and weakness were ready in my heart, and I cherished 
my anger like a piece of dignity. Perhaps an hour 
went by; the sun had gone down, a little wisp of a 
new moon was following it across a scarlet sunset; 
already there were stars in the east, and in my 
chambers, when at last I entered them, the night lay 
blue. I lit a taper and reviewed the rooms; in the 
first there remained nothing so much as to awake a 
memory of those who were gone; but in the second, 
in a corner of the floor, I spied a little heap that 
brought my heart into my mouth. She had left behind 
at her departure all that she ever had of me. It was 
the blow that I felt sorest, perhaps because it was the 
last; and I fell upon that pile of clothing and behaved 
myself more foolish than I care to tell of. 

Late in the night, in a strict frost, and my teeth 
chattering, I came again by some portion of my man- 
hood and considered with myself. The sight of these 
poor frocks and ribbons, and her shifts, and the clocked 
stockings, was not to be endured; and if I were to 
recover any constancy of mind, I saw I must be rid of 
them ere the morning. It was my first thought to 
have made a fire and burned them; but my disposition 
has always been opposed to wastery, for one thing; 
and for another, to have burned these things that 
she had worn so close upon her body seemed in the 
nature of a cruelty. There was a corner cupboard in 
that chamber; there I determined to bestow them. The 
which I did and made it a long business, folding them 


278 DAViD BALFOUR 


with very little skill indeed but the more care; and 
sometimes dropping them with my tears. All the heart 
was gone out of me, I was weary as though I had run 
miles, and sore like one beaten; when, as I was folding 
a kerchief that she wore often at her neck, I observed 
there was a corner neatly cut from it. It was a ker- 
chief of a very pretty hue, on which I had frequently 
remarked; and once that she had it on, I remembered 
telling ‘her (by way of a banter) that she wore my 
colours. There came a glow of hope and like a tide 
of sweetness in my bosom; and the next moment I was 
plunged back in a fresh despair. For there was the 
corner crumpled in a knot and cast down by itself in 
another part of the floor. 

But when I argued with myself, I grew more hope- 
ful. She had cut that corner off in some childish freak 
that was manifestly tender; that she had cast it away 
again was little to be wondered at; and I was inclined 
to dwell more upon the first than upon the second, and 
to be more pleased that she had ever conceived the 
idea of that keepsake, than concerned because she had 
flung it from her in an hour of natural resentment. 


CHAPTER XXIX 
WH MEET IN DUNKIRK 


LTOGETHER, then, I was scarce so miserable 

the next days but what I had many hopeful and 
happy snatches; threw myself with a good deal of con- 
stancy upon my studies; and made out to endure the 
time till Alan should arrive, or I might hear word of 
Catriona by the means of James More. I had al- 
together three letters in the time of our separation. 
One was to announce their arrival in the town of 
Dunkirk in France, from which place James shortly 
after started alone upon a private mission. This was 
to England and to see Lord Holderness; and it has 
always been a bitter thought that my good money 
helped to pay the charges of the same. But he has 
need of a long spoon who sups with the deil, or James 
More either. During this absence, the time was to fall 
due for another letter; and as the letter was the condi- 
tion of his stipend, he had been so careful as to pre- 
pare it beforehand and leave it with Catriona to be 
despatched. The fact of our correspondence aroused 
her suspicions, and he was no sooner gone than she 
had burst the seal. What I received began accordingly 
in the writing of James More: 


“My dear Sir,—Your esteemed favour came to hand 
duly, and I have to acknowledge the inclosure ac- 
cording to agreement. It shall be all faithfully ex- 
pended on my daughter, who is well, and desires to 
be remembered to her dear friend. I find her in rather 
a melancholy disposition, but trust in the mercy of 
God to see her re-established. Our manner of life is 
very much alone, but we solace ourselves with the 

279 


280 DAVID BALFOUR 


melancholy tunes of our native mountains, and by 
walking upon the margin of the sea that lies next to 
Scotland. It was better days with me when I lay with 
five wounds upon my body on the field of Gladsmuir. 
I have found employment here in the haras of a French 
nobleman, where my experience is valued. But, my 
dear Sir, the wages are so exceedingly unsuitable that 
I would be ashamed to mention them, which makes 
your remittances the more necessary to my daughter’s 
comfort, though I daresay the sight of old friends 
would be still better. 
“My dear Sir, 
“Your affectionate, obedient servant, 


“James Maccrecor DRuMMOND.” 
Below it began again in the hand of Catriona:— 
“Do not be believing him, it is all lies together. 
“Cy MEsD?? 


Not only did she add this postscript, but I think 
she must have come near suppressing the letter; for it 
came long after date, and was closely followed by the 
third. In the time betwixt them, Alan had arrived, 
and made another life to me with his merry conversa- 
tion; I had been presented to his cousin of the Scots- 
Dutch, a man that drank more than I could have 
thought possible and was not otherwise of interest; I 
had been entertained to many jovial dinners and given 
some myself, all with no great change upon my sorrow; 
and we two (by which I mean Alan and myself, and 
not at all the cousin) had discussed a good deal the 
nature of my relations with James More and his 
daughter. I was naturally diffident to give particulars; 
and this disposition was not anyway lessened by the 
nature of Alan’s commentary upon those I gave. 

“I cannae make head nor tail of it,” he would say, 
“but it sticks in my mind ye’ve made a gowk of your- 
self. There’s few people that has had more experience 
than Alan Breck; and I can never call to mind to 


WE MEET IN DUNKIRK 281 


' have heard tell of a lassie like this one of yours. The 
way that you tell it, the thing’s fair impossible. Ye 
must have made a terrible hash of the business, 
David.” 

ey are whiles that I am of the same mind,” 
said I. 

“The strange thing is that ye seem to have a kind 
of a fancy for her too!” said Alan. 

“The biggest kind, Alan,” said I, “and I think [ll 
take it to my grave ‘with me.’ 

“Well, ye beat me, whatever!” he would conclude. 

I showed him the letter with Catriona’s postscript. 
“And here again!” he cried. “Impossible to deny a 
kind of decency to this Catriona, and sense forbye. As 
for James More, the man’s as boss as a drum; he’s 
just a wame and a wheen words; though I’ll can never 
deny that he fought reasonably well at Gladsmuir, 
and it’s true what he says here about the five wounds. 
But the loss of him is that the man’s boss.” 

“Ye see, Alan,” said I, “it goes against the grain 
with me to leave the maid in such poor hands.” 

“Ye couldnae weel find poorer,” he admitted. “But 
what are ye to do with it? It’s this way about a 
man and a woman, ye see, Davie: The weemenfolk 
have got no kind of reason to them. Either they like 
the man, and then a’ goes fine; or else they just detest 
him, and ye may spare your breath—ye can do 
naething. ‘There’s just the two sets of them—them 
that would sell their coats for ye, and them that never 
look the road ye’re on. That’s a’ there is to women; 
and you seem to be such a gomeral that ye cannae tell 
the tane frae the tither.” 

“Well, and I’m afraid that’s true for me,” said I. 

“And "yet there’s naething easier!” cried Alan. “I 
could easy learn ye the science of the thing; but ye 
seem to me to be born blind, and there’s where the 
deefficulty comes in!” 

“And can you no help me?” I asiced, “vou that’s 
so clever at the trade?” 


282 DAVID BALFOUR 


“Ve see, David, I wasnae here,” said he. “I’m like 
a field officer that has naebody but blind men for 
scouts and éclaireurs; and what would he ken? But 
it sticks in my mind that ye’ll have made some kind 
of bauchle; and if I was you, I would have a try at 
her again.” 

“Would ye so, man Alan?” said I. 

“T would e’en’t,” says he. 

The third letter came to my hand while we were 
deep in some such talk; and it will be seen how pat 
it fell to the oceasion. James professed to be in some 
concern upon his daughter’s health, which I believe 
was never better; abounded in kind expressions to my- 
self; and finally proposed that I should visit them at 
Dunkirk. 

“You will now be enjoying the society of my old 
comrade, Mr. Stewart,” he wrote. ‘‘Why not accom- 
pany him so far in his return to France? I have 
something very particular for Mr. Stewart’s ear; and, 
at any rate, I would be pleased to meet in with an 
old fellow-soldier and one so mettle as himself. As 
for you, my dear sir, my daughter and I would be 
proud to receive our benefactor, whom we regard as 
a brother and a son. The French nobleman has proved 
a person of the most filthy avarice of character, and I 
have been necessitate to leave the haras. You will 
find us, in consequence, a little poorly lodged in the 
auberge of a man Bazin on the dunes; but the situa- 
tion is caller, and Imake no doubt but we might spend 
some very pleasant days, when Mr. Stewart and I 
could recall our services, and you and my daughter 
divert yourselves in a manner more befitting your age. 
I beg at least that Mr. Stewart would come here; my 
business with him opens a very wide door.” 

“What does the man want with me?” cried Alan 
when he had read. “What he wants with you is clear 
enough—it’s siller. But what can he want with Alan 
Breck?” 

“QO, it’ll be just an excuse,” said I. “He is still after 


WE MEET IN DUNKIRK 283 


this marriage, which I wish from my heart that we 
could bring about. And he asks you because he thinks 
I would be less likely to come wanting you.” 

“Well, I wish that I kent,” says Alan. “Him and 
me were never onyways pack; we used to girn at 
ither like a pair of pipers. ‘Something for my ear,’ 
quo’ he! I’ll maybe have something for his hinder-end, 
before we’re through with it. Dod, I’m thinking it 
would be a kind of divertisement to gang and see what 
he’ll be after! Forbye that I could see your lassie then. 
What say ye, Davie? Will ye ride with Alan?” 

You may be sure I was not backward, and Alan’s 
furlough running towards an end, we set forth presently 
upon this joint adventure. 

It was near dark of a January day when we rode 
at last into the town of Dunkirk. We left our horses 
at the post, and found a guide to Bazin’s inn, which 
lay beyond the walls. Night was quite fallen, so that 
we were the last to leave that fortress, and heard the 
doors of it close behind us as we passed the bridge. 
On the other side there lay a lighted suburb, which we 
thridded for a while, then turned into a dark lane, 
and presently found ourselves wading in the night 
among deep sand where we could hear a bullering of 
the sea. We travelled in this fashion for some while, 
following our conductor mostly by the sound of his 
voice; and I had begun to think he was perhaps mis- 
leading us, when we came to the top of a small brae, 
and there appeared out of the darkness a dim light 
in a window. ‘ 

“Voila Vauberge a Bazin,” says the guide. 

Alan smacked his lips. ‘An unco lonely bit,” said 
he, and I thought by his tone he was not wholly 
pleased. 

A little after, and we stood in the lower storey of 
that house, which was all in the one apartment, with 
a stair leading to the chambers at the side, benches 
and tables by the wall, the cooking fire at the one end 
of it, and shelves of bottles and the cellar-trap at the 


284 DAVID BALFOUR 


other. Here Bazin, who was an ill-looking, big man, 
told us the Scottish gentleman was gone abroad he 
knew not where, but the young lady was above, and 
he would call her down to us. 

I took from my breast that kerchief wanting the 
corner, and knotted it about my throat. I could hear 
my heart go; and Alan patting me on the shoulder 
with some of his laughable expressions, I could scarce 
refrain from a sharp word. But the time was not 
long to wait. I heard her step pass overhead, and saw 
her on the stair. This she descended very quietly, 
and greeted me with a pale face and a certain seeming 
of earnestness, or uneasiness, In her manner that ex- 
tremely dashed me. 

“My father, James More, will be here soon. He 
will be very pleased to see you,” she said. And then 
of a sudden her face flamed, her eyes lightened, the 
speech stopped upon her lips; and I made sure she 
had observed the kerchief. It was only for a breath 
that she was discomposed; but methought it was with 
a new animation that she turned to welcome Alan. 
“And you will be his friend, Alan Breck?” she cried. 
“Many is the dozen times I will have heard him tell 
of you; and I love you already for all your bravery 
and goodness.” 

“Well, well,” says Alan, holding her hand in his 
and viewing her, ‘‘and so this is the young lady at 
the last of it! David, ye’re an awful poor hand of 
a description.” 

I do not know that ever I heard him speak so 
straight to people’s hearts; the sound of his voice was 
like song. 

“What? will he have been describing me?” she cried. 

“Little else of it since I ever came out of France!” 
says he, “forbye a bit of a speciment one night in 
Scotland in a shaw of wood by Silvermills. But cheer 
up, my dear! ye’re bonnier than what he said. And 
now there’s one thing sure: you and me are to be a 
pair of friends. I’m a kind of a henchman to Davie 


WE MEET IN DUNKIRK 285 


here; I’m like a tyke at his heels: and whatever he 
cares for, I’ve got to care for too—and by the holy 
airn! they’ve got to care for me! So now you can see 
what way you stand with Alan Breck, and ye’ll find 
yell hardly lose on the transaction. He’s no very 
bonny, my dear, but he’s leal to them he loves.” 

“T thank you with my heart for your good words,” 
said she. “I have that honour for a brave, honest man 
that I cannot find any to be answering with.” 

Using travellers’ freedom, we spared to wait for 
James More, and sat down to meat, we threesome. 
Alan had Catriona sit by him and wait upon his 
wants: he made her drink first out of his glass, he sur- 
rounded her with continual kind gallantries, and yet 
never gave me the most small occasion to be jealous; 
and he kept the talk so much in his own hand, and 
that in so merry a note, that neither she nor I remem- 
bered to be embarrassed. If any had seen us there, it 
must have been supposed that Alan was the old friend 
and I the stranger. Indeed, I had often cause to love 
and to admire the man, but I never loved or admired 
him better than that night; and I could not help re- 
marking to myself (which I was sometimes rather in 
danger of forgetting) that he had not only much ex- 
perience in life, but in his own way a great deal of 
natural ability besides. As for Catriona she seemed 
quite carried away; her laugh was like a peal of bells, 
her face gay as a May morning; and I own, although 
I was very well pleased, yet I was a little sad also, 
and thought myself a dull, stockish character in com- 
parison of my friend, and very unfit to come into a 
young maid’s life, and perhaps ding down her gaiety. 

But if that was like to be my part, I found at least 
that I was not alone in it; for, James More returning 
suddenly, the girl was changed into a piece of stone. 
Through the rest of the evening, until she made an 
excuse and slipped to bed, 1 kept an eye upon her 
without cease: and I can bear testimony that she never 
smiled, scarce spoke, and looked mostly on the board 


286 DAVID BALFOUR 


in front of her. So that I really marvelled to see so 
much devotion (as it used to be) changed into the very 
sickness of hate. 

Of James More it is unnecessary to say much; you 
know the man already, what there was to know of 
him; and I am weary of writing out his lies. Enough 
that he drank a great deal, and told us very little 
that was to any possible purpose. As for the business 
with Alan, that was to be reserved for the morrow 
and his private hearing. 

It was the more easy to put off, because Alan and I 
were pretty weary with our day’s ride, and sat not very 
late after Catriona. 

We were soon alone in a chamber where we were to 
rmaake shift with a single bed. Alan looked on me with 
a queer smile. 

“Ye muckle ass!” said he. 

“What do ye mean by that?’ I cried. 

“Mean? What do I mean? It’s extraordinar, 
David man,” says he, ‘that you should be so mortal 
stupit.” 

Again I begged him to speak out. 

“Well, it’s this of it,’ said he. “I told ye there 
were the two kinds of women—them that would sell 
their shifts for ye, and the others. Just you try for 
yourself, my bonny man! But what’s that neepkin at 
your craig?” 

I told him. | 

“T thocht it was something there about,” said he. 

Nor would he say another word though I besieged 
him long with importunities. 


CHAPTER: XXX 
THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP 


} \AYLIGHT showed us how solitary the inn stood. 
It was plainly hard upon the sea, yet out of all 
view of it, and beset on every side with scabbit hills 
of sand. ‘There was, indeed, only one thing in the 
nature of a prospect, where there stood out over a 
brae the two sails of a windmill, like an ass’s ears, but 
with the ass quite hidden. It was strange (after the 
wind rose, for at first it was dead calm) to see the 
turning and following of each other of these great sails 
behind the hillock. Searce any road came by there; 
but a number of footways travelled among the bents. 
in all directions up to Mr. Bazin’s door. The truth is, 
he was a man of many trades, not any one of them 
honest, and the position of his inn was the best of his 
livelihood. Smugglers frequented it; political agents 
and forfeited persons bound across the water came 
there to await their passages; and I daresay there was 
worse behind, for a whole family might have been 
butchered in that house, and nobody the wiser. 

I slept little and ill. Long ere it was day, I had 
slipped from beside my bedfellow, and was warming 
myself at the fire or walking to and fro before the 
door. Dawn broke mighty sullen; but a little after, 
sprang up a wind out of the west, which burst the 
clouds, let through the sun, and set the mill to the 
turning. There was something of spring in the sun- 
shine, or else it was in my heart; and the appearing 
of the great sails one after another from behind the 
hill, diverted me extremely. At times I could hear a 
creak of the machinery; and by half-past eight of the 

287 


288 DAVID BALFOUR 


day, Catriona began to sing in the house. At this I 
would have cast my hat in the air; and I thought this 
dreary, desert place was like a paradise. 

For all which, as the day drew on and nobody came 
near, I began to be aware of an uneasiness that I 
could scarce explain. Jt seemed there was trouble 
afoot; the sails of the windmill, as they came up and 
went down over the hill, were like persons spying; and 
outside of all fancy, it was surely a strange ncighbour- 
hood and house for a young lady to be brought to 
dwell in. 

At breakfast, which we took late, it was manifest 
that James More was in some danger or perplexity; 
manifest that Alan was alive to the same, and watched 
him close; and this appearance of duplicity upon the 
one side, and vigilance upon the other, held me on live 
coals. The meal was no sooner over than James 
seemed to come to a resolve, and began to make apol- 
ogies. He had an appointment of a private nature 
in the town (it was with the French nobleman, he told 
me), and we would please excuse him till about noon. 
Meanwhile, he carried his daughter aside to the far 
end of the room, where he seemed to speak rather 
earnestly and she to listen without much inclination. 

“T am caring less and less about this man James,” 
said Alan. “There’s something no right with the man 
James, and I wouldnae wonder but what Alan Breck 
would give an eye to him this day. I would like fine 
to see yon French nobleman, Davie; and I daresay you 
could find an employ to yoursel’, and that would be 
to speir at the lassie for some news of your affair. 
Just tell it to her plainly—tell her ye’re a muckle 
ass at the off-set; and then, if I were you, and ye 
could do it naitural, I would just mint to her I was 
in some kind of a danger; a’ weemenfolk likes that.” 

“T cannae lee, Alan, I cannae do it naitural,” says I, 
mocking him. 

“The more fool you!” says he. “Then ye’ll can 
tell that I recommended it; that’ll set her to the 


THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP 289 


laughing; and I wouldnae wonder but what that was the 
next best. But see to the pair of them! If I didnae 
feel just sure of the lassie, and that she was awful 
pleased and chief with Alan, I would think there was 
some kind of hocus-pocus about yon.” 

“And is she so pleased with ye, then, Alan?” I asked. 

“She thinks a heap of me,” says he. “And I’m no 
like you: I’m one that can tell. That she does—she 
thinks a heap of Alan. And troth! I’m thinking a 
good deal of him mysel’; and with your permission, 
Shaws, Ill be getting a wee yont amang the bents, so 
that I can see what way James goes.” 

One after another went, till I was left alone beside 
the breakfast table; James to Dunkirk, Alan dogging 
him, Catriona up the stairs to her own chamber. I 
could very well understand how she should avoid to 
be alone with me; yet was none the better pleased with 
it for that, and bent my mind to entrap her to an 
interview before the men returned. Upon the whole, 
the best appeared to me to do like Alan. If I was out 
of view among the sand-hills, the fine morning would 
decoy her forth; and once I had her in the open, I could 
please myself, 

No sooner said than done; nor was I long under the 
bield of a hillock before she appeared at the inn door, 
looked here and there, and (seeing nobody) set out 
by a path that led directly seaward, and by which I 
followed her. I was in no haste to make my presence 
known; the further she went I made sure of the 
longer hearing to my suit; and the ground being all 
sandy it was easy to follow her unheard. The path 
rose and came at last to the head of a knowe. Thence 
I had a picture for the first time of what a desolate 
wilderness that inn stood hidden in; where was no man 
to be seen, nor any house of man, except just Bazin’s 
and the windmill. Only a little further on, the sea 
appeared and two or three ships upon it, pretty as a 
drawing. One of these was extremely close in to be so 
great a vessel; and I was aware of a shock of new 


290 DAVID BALFOUR 


suspicion, when I recognised the trim of the Seahorse. 
What should an English ship be doing so near in to 
France? Why was Alan brought into her neighbour- 
hood, and that in a place so far from any hope of 
rescue? and was it by accident, or by design, that the 
daughter of James More should walk that day to the 
seaside? 

Presently I came forth behind her in front of the 
sand-hills and above the beach. It was here long and 
solitary; with a man-o’-war’s boat drawn up about 
the middle of the prospect, and an officer in charge and 
pacing the sands like one who waited. I sat imme- 
diately down where the rough grass a good deal coy- 
ered me, and looked for what should follow. Catriona 
went straight to the boat; the officer met her with civil- 
ities; they had ten words together; I saw a letter 
changing hands; and there was Catriona returning. 
At the same time, as if this were all her business on 
the Continent, the boat shoved off and was headed for 
the Seahorse. But I observed the officer to remain be- 
hind and disappear among the bents. 

I liked the business little; and the more I considered 
of it, liked it less. Was it Alan the officer was seeking? 
or Catriona? She drew near with her head down, 
looking constantly on the sand, and made so tender a 
picture that I could not bear to doubt her innocence. 
The next, she raised her face and recognised me; 


seemed to hesitate, and then came on again, but more © 


slowly, and I thought with a changed colour. And at 
that thought, all else that was upon my bosom—fears, 
suspicions, the care of my friend’s life—was clean swal- 
lowed up; and I rose to my feet and stood waiting her 
in a drunkenness of hope. 


I gave her “good morning” as she came up, which © 


she returned with a good deal of composure. 
“Will you forgive my having followed you?” said I. 
“IT know you are always meaning kindly,” she re- 
plied; and then, with a little outburst, “but why will 


you be sending money to that man? It must not be.” | 


THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP 291 


“T never sent it for him,” said I, “but for you, as 
you know well.” 

“And you have no right to be sending it to either 
one of us,” said she. “David, it is not right.” 

“Tt is not, it is all wrong,” said I; ‘“‘and I pray God 
he will help this dull fellow (if it be at all possible) 
to make it better. Catriona, this is no kind of life 
for you to lead; and I ask your pardon for the word, 
but yon man is no fit father to take care of you.” 

“Do not be speaking of him, even!” was her cry. 

“And I need speak of him no more; it is not of him 
that I am thinking, O, be sure of that!” says L “I 
think of the one thing. I have been alone now this 
long time in Leyden; and when I was by way of at 
my studies, still I was thinking of that. Next Alan 
came, and I went among soldier-men to their big 
dinners; and still I had the same thought. And it 
was the same before, when I had her, there beside me. 
Catriona, do you see this napkin at my throat? You 
cut a corner from it once and then cast it from you. 
They’re your colours now; I wear them in my heart. 
My dear, I cannot be wanting you. O, try to put up 
with me!” 

I stepped before her so as to intercept her walk- 
ing on. 

“Try to put up with me,” I was saying, “try and 
bear with me a little.” 

Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise 
in me like a fear of death. 

“Catriona,” I cried, gazing on her hard, “is it a mis- 
take again? Am I quite lost?” 

She raised her face to me, breathless. 

“Do you want me, Davie, truly?” said she, and I 
scarce could hear her say it. 

“I do that,” said I. “O, sure you know it—I do 
that.” 

“I have nothing left to give or to keep back,” said 
she. “I was all yours from the first day, if you would 
have had a gift of me!” she said. 


292 DAVID BALFOUR 


This was on the summit of a brae; the place was 
windy and conspicuous, we were to be seen there even 
from the English ship; but I kneeled down before her 
in the sand, and embraced her knees, and burst into 
that storm of weeping that I thought it must have 
broken me. All thought was wholly beaten from my 
mind by the vehemency of my discomposure. I knew 
not where I was, I had forgot why I was happy; only 
I knew she stooped, and I felt her cherish me to her 
face and bosom, and heard her words out of a whirl. 

“Davie,” she was saying, “O, Davie, is this what 
you think of me? Is it so that you were caring for 
poor me? O, Davie, Davie!” 

With that she wept also, and our tears were com- 
mingled in a perfect gladness. 

It might have been ten in the day before I came to 
a clear sense of what a mercy had befallen me; and 
sitting over against her, with her hands in mine, gazed 
in her face, and laughed out loud for pleasure like a 
child, and called her foolish and kind names. I have 
never seen the place that looked so pretty as these 
bents by Dunkirk; and the windmill sails, as they 
bobbed over the knowe, were like a tune of music. 

I know not how much longer we might have con- 
tinued to forget all else besides ourselves, had I not 
chanced upon a reference to her father, which brought 
us to reality. 

“My little friend,” I was calling her again and again, 
rejoicing to summon up the past by the sound of it, 
and to gaze across on her, and to be a little distant 
—‘My little friend, now you are mine altogether; mine 
for Bod my little friend; and that man’s no longer 
at all. 

There came a sudden whiteness in her face, she 
plucked her hands from mine. 

“Davie, take me away from him!” she cried. 
“There’s something wrong; he’s not true. There will be 
something wrong; I have a dreadful terror here at my 
heart. What will he be wanting at all events with 


THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP 293 


that King’s ship? What will this word be saying?” 
And she held the letter forth. “My mind misgives me, 
it will be some ill to Alan. Open it, Davie—open it and 
see.” 

I took it, and looked at it, and shook my head. 

“No,” said I, “it goes against me, I cannot open a 
man’s letter.” 

“Not to save your friend?” she cried. 

ie cannae tell,” said I. “I think not. If I was only 
sure!’ 

“And you have but to break the seal!” said she. 

“T know it,” said I, “but the thing goes against me.” 

“Give it here,” said she, “‘and I will open it myself.” 

“Not you neither,” said I. “You least of all. It 
concerns your father, and his honour, dear, which we 
are both misdoubting. No question but the place is 
dangerous-like, and the English ship being here, and 
your father having word from it, and yon officer that 
stayed ashore! He would not be alone either; there 
must be more along with him; I daresay we are spied 
upon this minute. Ay, no doubt, the letter should be 
opened; but somehow, not by you nor me.” 

I was about thus far with it, and my spirit very much 
overcome with a sense of danger and hidden enemies, 
when I spied Alan, come back again from following 
_ James and walking by himself among the sand-hills. 
He was in his soldier’s coat, of course, and mighty fine; 
but I could not avoid to shudder when I thought how 
little that jacket would avail him, if he were once 
caught and flung in a skiff, and carried on board of the 
Seahorse, a deserter, a rebel, and now a condemned 
murderer. 

“There,” said I, “there is the man that has the best 
right to open it: or not, as he thinks fit.” 

With which I called upon his name, and we both 
stood up to be a mark for him. 

“Tf it is so—if it be more disgrace—will you can bear 
it?” she asked, looking upon me with a burning eye. 

“T was asked something of the same question when 


294 DAVID BALFOUR 


I had seen you but the once,” said I. “What do you 
think I answered? That if I liked you as I thought 
I did—and O, but I like you better!—I would marry 
you at his gallows’ foot.” 

The blood rose in her face; she came close up and 
pressed upon me, holding my hand: and it was so that 
we awaited Alan. 

He came with one of his queer smiles. ‘‘What was 
I telling ye, David?” says he. 

“There is a time for all things, Alan,” said I, “and 
this time‘is serious. How have you sped? You can 
speak out plain before this friend of ours.” 

‘“T have been upon a fool’s errand,” said he. 

“YT doubt we have done better than you, then,” said 
I; “and, at least, here is a great. deal of matter that 
you must judge of. Do you see that?” I went on, 
pointing to the ship. ‘‘That is the Seahorse, Captain 
Palliser.” 

“I should ken her, too,” says Alan. “I had fyke 
enough with her when she was stationed in the Forth. 
But what ails the man to come so close?” 

“T will tell you why he came there first,” said I. 
“It was to bring this letter to James More. Why he 
stops here now that it’s delivered, what it’s likely to 
be about, why there’s an officer hiding in the bents, 
and whether or not it’s probable that he’s alone—I 
would rather you considered for yourself.” 

“A letter to James More?’ said he. 

“The same,” said I. 

“Well, and I can tell ye more than that,” said Alan. 
“For last night, when you were fast asleep, I heard 
the man colloguing with some one in French, and then 
the door of that inn to be opened and shut.” 

‘“‘Alan!” cried I, “you slept all night, and I am here 
to prove it.” 

“Ay, but I would never trust Alan whether he was 
asleep or waking!” says he. “But the business looks 
bad. lLet’s see the letter.” 

I gave it him. 


THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP 295 


“Catriona,” said he, “ye’ll have to excuse me, my 
dear; but there’s nothing less than my fine bones upon 
the cast of it, and I’ll have to break this seal.” 

“It is my wish,” said Catriona. 

He opened it, glanced it through, and flung his hand 
in the air. 

“The stinking brock!” says he, and crammed the 
paper in his pocket. “Here, let’s get our things the- 
gither. This place is fair death to me.” And he began 
to walk towards the inn. 

It was Catriona that spoke the first. “He has sold 
you?” she asked. 

“Sold me, my dear,” said Alan. “But thanks to 
you and Davie, Ill can jink him yet. Just let me win 
upon my horse!” he added. 

“Catriona must come with us,” said I. “She can 
have no more traffic with that man. She and I are to 
to married.” At which she pressed my hand to her 
side. 

“Are ye there with it?” says Alan, looking back. 
“The best day’s work that ever either of ye did yet! 
And I’m bound to say, my dawtie, ye make a real, 
bonny couple.” 

The way that he was following brought us close 
in by the windmill, where | was aware of a man in 
seaman’s trousers, who seemed to be spying from 
behind it. Only, of course, we took him in the rear. 

“See, Alan!” said I. 

“Wheesht!” said he, “this is my affairs.” 

The man was, no doubt, a little deafened by the clat- 
tering of the mill, and we got up close before he noticed. 
Then he turned, and we saw he was a big fellow with a 
mahogany face. 

“T think, sir,” says Alan, “that you speak the 
English?” 

“Non, monsieur,’ says he, with an incredible bad 
accent. ' 

“Non, monsieur,”’ cries Alan, mocking him. “Is that 
how they learn you French on the Seahorse? Ye 


296 | DAVID BALFOUR 


muckle, gutsey hash, here’s a Scots boot to your 
English hurdies!” 

And bounding on him before he could escape, he 
dealt the man a kick that laid him on his nose. Then 
he stood, with a savage smile, and watched him 
scramble to his feet and scamper off into the sand- 
hills. 

“But it’s high time I was clear of these empty 
bents!” said Alan; and continued his way at top speed 
and we still following, to the back door of Bazin’s inn. 

It chanced that as we entered by the one door we 
came face to face with James More entering by the 
other. 

“Here!” said I to Catriona, “quick! upstairs with 
you and make your packets; this is no fit scene for 
you.” 

In the meanwhile James and Alan had met in the 
midst of the long room. She passed them close by to 
reach the stairs; and after she was some way up I saw 
her turn and glance at them again, though without 
pausing. Indeed, they were worth looking at. Alan 
wore as they met one of his best appearances of 
courtesy and friendliness, yet with something emi- 
nently warlike, so that James smelled danger off the 
man, as folk smell fire in a house, and stood prepared 
for accidents. 

Time pressed. Alan’s situation in that solitary 
place, and his enemies about him, might have daunted 
Cesar. It made no change in him; and it was in his 
old spirit of mockery and daffing that he began the 
interview. 

“A braw good day to ye again, Mr. Drummond,” 
said he. ‘What’ll yon business of yours be just 
about?” 

“Why, the thing being private, and rather of a long 
story,” says James, “I think it will keep very well till 
we have eaten.” 

“T’m none so sure of that,” said Alan. “It sticks 
in my mind it’s either now or never; for the fact is 


THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP 297 


me and Mr. Balfour here have gotten a line, and we’re 
thinking of the road.” 

I saw a little surprise in James’s eye; but he held 
himself stoutly. 

“T have but the one word to say to cure you of that,” 
said he, ‘and that is the name of my business.” 

“Say it then,” says Alan. ‘Hout! wha minds for 
Davie?” 

“It is a matter that would make us both rich men,” 
said James. 

“Do ye tell me that?” cries Alan. 

“T do sir,” said James. “The plain fact is that it is 
Cluny’s Treasure.” 

“No!” cried Alan. “Have ye got word of it?” 

“YT ken the place, Mr. Stewart, and can take you 
there,” said James. 

“This crowns all!” says Alan. ‘Well, and I’m glad 
I came to Dunkirk. And so this was your business, 
was it? Halvers, I’m thinking?” 

“That is the business, sir,” says James. 

“Well, well,” says Alan; and then in the same tone 
of childlike interest, “it has naething to do with the 
Seahorse, then?” he asked. 

“With what?” says James. 

“Or the lad that I have just kicked the bottom of 
behind yon windmill?” pursued Alan. ‘Hut, man! 
have done with your lees! I have Palliser’s letter here 
in my pouch. You’re by with it, James More. You 
can never show your face again with dacent folk.” 

James was taken all aback with it. He stood a 
second, motionless and white, then swelled with the 
living anger. 

“Do you talk to me, you bastard?” he roared out. 

“Ye glee’d swine!” cried Alan, and hit him a sound- 
ing buffet on the mouth, and the next wink of time 
their blades clashed together. 

At the first sound of the bare steel I instinctively 
leaped back from the collision. The next I saw, James 
parried a thrust so nearly that I thought him killed; 


298 DAVID BALFOUR 


and it lowed up in my mind that this was the girl’s 
father, and in a manner almost my own, and I drew 
and ran in to sever them. ) 

“Keep back, Davie! Are ye daft? Damn ye, keep 
Senay roared Alan. “Your blood be on your ain heid 
then!’ 

I beat their blades down twice. I was knocked 
reeling against the wall; I was back again betwixt 
them. They took no heed of me, thrusting at each 
other like two furies. I can never think how I avoided 
being stabbed myself or stabbing one of these two 
Rodomonts, and the whole business turned about me 
hke a piece of a dream; in the midst of which I heard 
a great cry from the stair, and Catriona sprang before 
her father. In the same moment the point of my 
sword encountered something yielding. It came back 
to me reddened. I saw the blood flow on the girl’s 
kerchief, and stood sick. 

“Will you be killing him before my eyes, and me 
his daughter after all?” she cried. 

“My dear, I have done with him,” said Alan, and 
went and sat on a table, with his arms crossed and 
the sword naked in his hand. 

Awhile she stood before the man, panting, with big 
eyes, then swung suddenly about and faced him. 

“Begone!” was her word, ‘take your shame out 
of my sight; leave me with clean folk. I am a daugh- 
ter of Alpin! Shame of the sons of Alpin, begone!” 

It was said with so much passion as awoke me from 
the horror of my own bloodied sword. The two stood 
facing, she with the red stain on her kerchief, he white 
as a rag. I knew him well enough—I knew it must 
have pierced him in the quick place of his soul; but 
he betook himself to a bravado air. 

“Why,” says he, sheathing his sword, though still 
with a bright eye on Alan, “if this brawl is over I will 
but get my portmanteau ii 

“There goes no pockmantie out of this place except 
with me,” says Alan. 





THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP 299 


“Sir!” cries James. 

“James More,” says Alan, ‘‘this lady daughter of 
yours 1s to marry my friend Davie, upon the which 
account I let you pack with a hale carcase. But take 
you my advice of it and get that carcase out of harm’s 
way or ower late. Little as you suppose it, there are 
leemits to my temper.” 

“Be damned, sir, but my money’s there!” said James. 

“Pm vexed about that, too,” says Alan, with his 
funny face, “but now, ye see, it’s mines.” And then 
with more gravity, “Be you advised, James More, you 
leave this house.” 

James seemed to cast about for a moment in his 
mind; but it’s to be thought he had enough of Alan’s 
swordsmanship, for he suddenly put off his hat to us 
and (with a face like one of the damned) bade us 
farewell in a series. With which he was gone. 

At the same time a spell was lifted from me. 

“Catriona,” I cried, “it was me—it was my sword. 
O, are ye much hurt?” 

“I know it, Davie, I am loving you for the pain of 
it; it was done defending that bad man, my father. 
See!”’ she said, and showed me a bleeding scratch,” see, 
you have made a man of me now. I will carry a wound 
like an old soldier.” 

Joy that she should be so little hurt, and the love of 
her brave nature, transported me. I embraced her, I 
kissed the wound. 

“And am I to be out of the kissing, me that never 
lost a chance?” says Alan; and putting me aside and 
taking Catriona by either shoulder, ‘My dear,” he said, 
‘“vowre a true daughter of Alpin. By all accounts, he 
was a very fine man, and he may weel be proud of you. 
If ever I was to get married, it’s the marrow of you 
I would be seeking for a mother to my sons. And I 
bear a king’s name and speak the truth.” 

He said it with a serious heat of admiration that was 
honey to the girl, and through her, to me, It seemed 


300 DAVID BALFOUR 


to wipe us clean of all James More’s disgraces. And 
the next moment he was just himself again. 

“And now by your leave, my dawties,” said he, “this 
is a’ very bonny; but Alan Breck’ll be a wee thing 
nearer to the gallows than he’s caring for; and Dod! 
I think this is a grand place to be leaving.” 

The word recalled us to some wisdom. Alan ran 
upstairs and returned with our saddle-bags and James 
More’s portmanteau; I picked up Catriona’s bundle 
where she had dropped it on the stair; and we were 
setting forth out of that dangerous house, when Bazin 
stopped the way with cries and gesticulations. He had 
whipped under a table when the swords were drawn, 
but now he was as bold as a lion. There was his bill 
to be settled, there was a chair broken, Alan had sat 
among his dinner things, James More had fled. 

“Here,” I cried, “pay yourself,” and flung him down 
some Lewie d’ors; for I thought it was no time to be 
accounting. 

He sprang upon that money, and we passed him by, 
and ran forth into the open. Upon three sides of the 
house were seamen hasting and closing in; a little 
nearer to us James More waved his hat as if to hurry 
them; and right behind him, like some foolish person 
holding up its hands, were the sails of the windmill 
turning. 

Alan gave but the one glance, and laid himself down 
to run. He carried a great weight in James More’s 
portmanteau; but I think he would as soon have lost 
his life as cast away that booty which was his re- 
venge; and he ran so that I was distressed to follow 
him, and marvelled and exulted to see the girl bound- 
ing at my side. 

As soon as we appeared, they cast off all disguise 
upon the other side; and the seamen pursued us with 
shouts and view-hullohs. We had a start of some two 
hundred yards, and they were but bandy-legged tar- 
paulins after all, that could not hope to better us at 
such an exercise. I suppose they were armed, but did 


| THE LETTER FROM THE SHIP 301 


not care to use their pistols on French ground. And 
as soon as I perceived that we not only held our ad- 
vantage but drew a little away, I began to feel quite 
easy of the issue. For all which, it was a hot, brisk 
bit of work, so long as it lasted; Dunkirk was still 
far off; and when we popped over a knowe, and found 
a company of the garrison marching on the other side 
on some manceuvre, I could very well understand the 
word that Alan had. 

He stopped running at once; and mopping at his 
brow, “They’re a real bonny folk, the French nation,” 
says he. 


CONCLUSION 


O sooner were we safe within the walls of Dun- 

kirk than we held a very necessary council 
of war on our position. We had taken a daughter from 
her father at the sword’s point; any judge would give 
her back to him at once, and by all likelihood clap me 
and Alan into jail; and though we had an argument 
upon our side in Captain Palliser’s letter, neither 
Catriona nor I were very keen to be using it in public. 
Upon all accounts it seemed the most prudent to carry 
the girl to Paris to the hands of her own chieftain, 
Macgregor of Bohaldie, who would be very willing 
to help his kinswoman, on the one hand, and not at all 
anxious to dishonour James upon the other. 

We made but a slow journey of it up, for Catriona 
was not so good at the riding as the running, and had 
scarce sat in a saddle since the ’Forty-five. But we 
made it out at last, reached Paris early of a Sabbath 
morning, and made all speed, under Alan’s guidance, to 
find Bohaldie. He was finely lodged, and lived in a 
good style, having a pension on the Scots Fund, as well 
as private means; greeted Catriona like one of his own 
house, and seemed altogether very civil and discreet, 
but not particulary open. We asked of the news of 
James More. ‘Poor James!” said he, and shook his 
head and smiled so that I thought he knew further 
than he meant to tell. Then we showed him Palliser’s 
letter, and he drew a long face at that. 

“Poor James!” said he again. “Well, there are 
worse folk than James More, too. But this is dreadful 
bad. Tut, tut, he may have forgot himself entirely! 
This is a most undesirable letter. But, for all that, 
gentlemen, I cannot see what we would want to make it 


| 
| 
} 
: 





CONCLUSION 303 


public for. It’s an ill bird that fouls his own nest, and 
we are all Scots folk and all Hieland.” 

Upon this we were all agreed, save perhaps Alan; 
and still more upon the question of our marriage, which 
Bohaldie took in his own hands, as though there had 
been no such person as James More, and gave Catriona 
away with very pretty manners and agreeable compli- 
ments in French. It was not till all was over, and our 
healths drunk, that he told us James was in that city, 
whither he had preceded us some days, and where he 
now lay sick, and like to die. I thought I saw by my 
wife’s face what way her inclination pointed. 

“And let us go see him, then,” said I. 

“Tf it is your pleasure,’ said Catriona. These were 
early days. | 

He was lodged in the same quarter of the city with 
his chief, in a great house upon a corner; and we were 
guided up to the garret where he lay by the sound of 
Highland piping. It seemed he had just borrowed a 
set of them from Bohaldie to amuse his sickness; 
though he was no such hand as was his brother Rob, he 
made good music of the kind; and it was strange to 
observe the French folk crowding on the stairs, and 
some of them laughing. He lay propped in a pallet. 
The first look of him I saw he was upon his last 
business; and, doubtless, this was a strange place for 
him to die in. But even now I find I can scarce dwell 
upon his end with patience. Doubtless, Bohaldie had 
prepared him; he seemed to know we were married, 
complimented us on the event, and gave us a bene- 
diction like a patriarch. 

“T have been never understood,” said he. “I forgive 
you both without an afterthought”; after which he 
spoke for all the world in his old manner, was so 
obliging as to play us a tune or two upon his pipes, 
and borrowed a small sum before I left. I could not 
trace even a hint of shame in any part of his be- 
haviour; but he was great upon forgiveness; it seemed 
always fresh to him. I think he forgave me every time 


304 DAVID BALFOUR 


we met; and when after some four days he passed away 
in a kind of odour of affectionate sanctity, I could have 
torn my hair out for exasperation. I had him buried; 
but what to put upon his tomb was quite beyond me, 
till at last I considered the date would look best alone. 

I thought it wiser to resign all thoughts of Leyden, 
where we had appeared once as brother and sister, and 
it would certainly look strange to return in a new 
character. Scotland would be doing for us; and thither, 
after I had recovered that which I had left behind, we 
sailed in a Low Country ship. 

And now, Miss Barbara Balfour (to set the ladies 
first), and Mr. Alan Balfour, younger of Shaws, here 
is the story brought fairly to an end. A great many 
of the folk that took a part in it, you will find (if you 
think well) that you have seen and spoken with. 
Alison Hastie in Limekilns was the lass that rocked 
your cradle when you were too small to know of it, and 
walked abroad with you in the policy when you were 
bigger. That very fine great lady that is Miss 
Barbara’s name-mamma is no other than the same 
Miss Grant that made so much a fool of David Bal- 
four in the house of the Lord Advocate. And I wonder 
whether you remember a little, lean, lively gentleman 
in a scratch-wig and a wraprascal, that came to Shaws 
very late of a dark night, and whom you were 
awakened out of your beds and brought down to the 
dining-hall to be presented to, by the name of Mr. 
Jamieson? Or has Alan forgotten what he did at 
Mr. Jamieson’s request—a most disloyal act—for 
which, by the letter of the law, he might be hanged— 
no less than drinking the king’s health across the 
water? These were strange doings in a good Whig 
house! But Mr. Jamieson is a man privileged, and 
might set fire to my corn-barn; and the name they 
know him by now in France is the Chevalier Stewart. 

As for Davie and Catriona, I shall watch you pretty 
close in the next days, and see if you are so bold as to 
be laughing at papa and mamma, It is true we were 


CONCLUSION 305 


not so wise as we might have been, and made a great 
deal of sorrow out of nothing; but you will find as you 
grow up that even the artful Miss Barbara, and even 
the valiant Mr. Alan, will be not so very much wiser 
than their parents. For the life of man upon this 
world of ours is a funny business. They talk of the 
angels weeping; but I think they must more often be 
holding their sides, as they look on; and there was one 
thing I determined to do when [ began this long story, 
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